


special little snowflakes

by ayuminb, bythunder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Rarepair Week 2018, ASoIaF Rarepair Week 2019, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jurassic World Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/pseuds/bythunder
Summary: [For the ASoIaF Rarepair Week - Take Two]//In which there are a bunch of special little snowflakes.March 1 - Beyond the Wall: Aegon/Sansa“Go north, beyond the Wall, son. Dark times are near, the Long Night, Aegon,” he'd gripped his arms tight, near shaking him. “The Night's King is coming for us all, Aegon! You must kill him, only you can do it. My son, the Prince That was Promised.”





	1. day one, take one - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day One: Fake Dating – “They’re coming- kiss me!”_  
>  Lyanna hates that she let her crush on her brother’s friend get to the point where she’s turning down dates saying she has “a boyfriend”, because now she needs to attend an event and is expected to bring said boyfriend.

Lyanna looks at the address scribbled in her hand and has to do her fucking best not to whine. She looks back up to meet Cersei Lannister’s sharp grin as she awaited her answer. An answer she does not know how to deliver without making a fool out of herself. _But who tells me to go lying about my relationship status?_ No one, absolutely no one.

 

“Well? You think you can make it?”

 

“Yeah, I think I can.”

 

Cersei smiles brighter, leans over to place a kiss to her cheek that leaves her flustered, and then retreats, calling over her shoulder not to be late to their birthday party. “Don't worry about Jaime, Stark,” she adds with a smirk. “He says there are no hard feelings!”

 

She waits for the blonde beauty to be out of sight before frowning. “I'm sure,” Lyanna mumbles, struggling to keep a straight face as she turns around and hurries to her car. “Because there's no way Jaime fucking Lannister took my rejection as anything more than shyness on my part.” The sarcasm in her voice surprises even her with its intensity.

 

It is her own fault, really, which makes her even more angry. Her own damn fault for letting her childhood crush on her brother’s friend get so out of hand. With a pitiful whine, she leans on the car as soon as she reaches it, raging at her poor judgement and foolishness.

 

At her hopelessly romantic heart that clings to a possibility that might never come to pass.

 

_“Robert’s not this knight in shining armor you make him out to be, little sister. He has his flaws.”_

 

 _Well, I know that._ She's not trying to fit him into this idealized mold or anything. Yes, when Lyanna was twelve and had just met Robert, she'd been both annoyed and charmed by him. Though he'd been oblivious to her budding crush, calling her kid and generally treating her no different than he treated Benjen. Once she'd stopped fighting her crush, her teenaged heart had broken a little when Robert's attitude remained. _Kid. I'm always going to be a kid to him._ And then a bit more when she was old enough to learn of some of the _faults_ dear Ned spoke of.

 

One would think the little they saw each other would help her forget eventually. What with him graduating and going off to college in King's Landing sooner than Ned, and later once he got a permanent job in the capital. But _no_ , because her brother also went to college in King's Landing and managed to land a job in the same company as his dearest friend. Ned still brought him over sometimes for the holidays. But later – _now_ – as a fucking adult who had dated some boys and girls over the years since, Lyanna fully expected to get over him.

 

“I guess coming to King's Landing for college did not help at all,” she grumbles, getting into the car and driving back to her apartment.

 

Or rather _their_ apartment, another poor decision on her part. Letting her parents convince Ned to let her stay with him while she finished her studies; letting Ned _convince her_ it was for the best, that it would make him rest easier knowing she will always have a place to stay, away from campus shenanigans. _Not that I can't go find said shenanigans on my own._ She smirks, though her good humor is short lived. Because the apartment is not just Ned's, _no_ , it's also Robert's. A fact which in and of itself isn't so _bad_ , Lyanna thinks as she parks her car next to Robert's truck.

 

_“Trying to overcompensate, Bobby?”_

 

_“I need the legroom, Stark, ‘tis all.”_

 

Lyanna growls and bangs her hands on the wheel. _Fucking Lannisters._ Hurrying up the stairs, she looks forward to a quiet night in, one not thinking about fancy birthday parties or stupid crushes. _It's a Thursday._ And that means both Ned and Robert would spend it at the Dragon Pit, the most popular club on Rhaenys’ Hill, just around the corner. _Perfect night for some me time._ It's not really like she hates living with her big brother and his friend – it's just that, _sometimes_ , living in the same place as Robert… it could be a bit _much_.

 

Her key twists in the lock and she steps in, closes the door firmly, but doesn't move past that, despite the apartment being on the small side. _Oh._ Not when the sight of a shirtless and sweaty Robert greets her from the den.

 

“Hey, Stark!” He grins at her with every sit-up. “How was class?”

 

Lyanna thinks—no, she's _sure_ —her IQ drops to the single digits. Robert doesn't lose the grin and he also doesn't stop exercising; she blinks and lets her eyes travel the length of his torso, takes in the way his abs twitch with every sit-up and how a single drop of sweat slides through the hard planes of muscle, down, down, _down_ until it collides with his shorts. Lyanna wonders what it'd be like to run her hands over all that exposed skin, lick all—

 

 _Halt that thought, Stark,_ she thinks, shaking her head forcefully. _Don't go there._

 

“That bad, huh?”

 

Her whine may or may not be a mix of her Lannister problem _and Robert himself_. Lyanna drops her bag and jacket and walks the required steps to fall face first on the couch. His laughter makes her whine again and blindly shake her fist at him, which is when he grabs her hand to kiss her knuckle quickly before letting go – and fuck it all, but she’s pretty sure her brain shuts down for a second, otherwise what happens next would not be possible.

 

She turns her head to look at him. Robert smirks, flips around, and begins doing push-ups – _and how is that fucking fair?_

 

“The Lannisters invited me to their birthday party—”

 

“Ooh, run for the hills. You do not want to mess with those twins, trust me.”

 

“—I already said yes and that I would bring my boyfriend.”

 

It is only because she's admiring his motivation to work out— _don’t lie, Stark, you’re thirsting over his half naked body_ —that she catches the falter in his pace. It sparks her curiosity, but not for long because he’s back to grinning lightheartedly.

 

“You’ve a boyfriend? Huh, that’s new. How come we haven’t met him?”

 

Lyanna huffs, sits up, putting some distance between herself and his stupid grin, though now she’s facing his back and the way his muscles ripple with every movement and _his bum_ — “That’s the thing. I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve just been saying that because…” _I like you_ , she wants to say, but doesn’t. “I don’t want to date college boys.”

 

There’s a lull in the conversation; she can hear Robert finish his count before he hops onto his feet, and then falls back onto the couch next to her, snatching his towel from the floor to wipe his face.

 

“Wanna date a man, do you?”

 

She punches his arm for being cheeky, but doesn’t deny it. Fucking _really_ , her brain must be MIA, given how she suddenly has no filter. “Yeah. Know anyone?”

 

“I might,” he says, throws his arm around her shoulders and leans closer. “He's kinda insufferable.”

 

Her thoughts are rapidly scattered, up this close to him, _no_ , Lyanna can't think; not on anything that doesn't involve Robert tied to her bed while she takes the time to lick his abs. And more, definitely more. _I don't even need whipped cream, just like this is enough._ A flick to her forehead has her flinching back in surprise.

 

“You're spacing out on me, Stark. Rude.”

 

Finally realizing their position, Lyanna pushes him away, faking a grimace. “I spaced out because you're sweaty and stinky.” She sticks out her tongue. “Go shower!” There comes another dangerous if pleasant mental image; Robert, naked and wet and – Lyanna groans, covering her face. “Oh, _my gods_.”

 

He laughs, probably misunderstanding her. “Alright, alright! I'll go shower.” Definitely misunderstanding her. “Hey, Stark.”

 

When she looks up, Robert is on the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Yeah?”

 

“Are you really going to this party?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She would definitely not be a coward and miss it, there's always excuses she can make for the missing boyfriend.

 

“I'll help you, then.”

 

“Uh?”

 

With a grin, Robert winks at her. “I'll be your boyfriend for the night.”

 

Appropriate responses to this are, but aren't limited to, the following: “no, thank you”, “you don't have to”, “it's okay, I'll think of something” “thanks, but I can handle it”.

 

Lyanna says: “Yeah, okay. This Saturday, then.”

 

“I'll pick you up.”

 

The spectacular sight of his ass as he walks away prevents her from replying to his joke, until it sinks. Until the last exchanged words _sink_.

 

“Oh, fuck.”

 

******

 

The party is everything he'd expected to be; flashy and ostentatious and rubbing in your face how very wealthy the family is.

 

Other than the initial reception, where Lyanna introduced him as her boyfriend, where Cersei fucking Lannister had given him a once over and then that conniving smile he's grown to hate, nothing much had happened. Robert plays his part, perhaps a _bit_ too well; he stays close, gets her drinks and keeps a hand on her waist or lower back always, glares at the appropriate times and is overly lovey-dovey when required.

 

While he's not adverse to some PDA, it's mostly for some mildly making out, some groping if he could get away with it; but it's definitely not this sickening sweet shit he's pulling.

 

“They're coming – kiss me!”

 

“What?” Robert laughs but pulls her closer, within the circle of his arms as Jaime and Cersei Lannister come closer. “Relax,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her temples. “Those twins aren't stupid, they'll notice if you try too hard.”

 

Slowly, her arms sneaks around his waist as well. “Alright.”

 

“Well, I never thought I'd see the day,” Cersei says, a smile that borders on the sardonic aimed at him. “Robert Baratheon settling down with a proper _girlfriend_.”

 

“Well, you know,” Robert flashes her a smile, then turns to place a gentle kiss to Lyanna's lips, and relishes the blush that blooms on her cheeks. “All it takes is the right girl.”

 

“I'm sure.” She then turns to Lyanna. “I'm so glad you could make it. And _congratulations_ – Robert is a very generous lover.”

 

Cersei kisses both his cheeks, and repeats the process with Lyanna; Jaime only kisses her hand and waves at him. And then they disappear among their guests.

 

And then Lyanna turns a frowns at him.

 

“You dated her?”

 

“I'd hardly call a weekend _dating_.” His words don't ease her frown, though he can’t quite understand why. “Hey, relax. I’m not going to rekindle anything with her. Trust me – been there, done that, have the scars as souvenirs. And not of the fun kind, if you get what I’m saying.”

 

That is, of course, the wrong thing to say. Lyanna’s frowns deepens, but she makes no other comment.

 

And were it any other time, probably any other girl, he’d let it slide. But _this girl_ , you see, Ned’s little sister, she’d come into his life like a storm, turning everything on its head, _fucking blindsiding him_. He remembers this bratty little thing from his teen years, with a sort of cute crush on him that always had her either frowning at him or running out of rooms; remembers talking it over with Ned, and then forgetting all about it until she’d moved in. This girl, _you see_ , he’s grown attracted to her over the time they’d lived under the same roof, yet that’s all he’s allowed himself to feel. Attraction. _Ned’s little sister._ She can’t be just another conquest, she won’t, if he ever decides to go there – what was it he said to Cersei fucking Lannister?

 

_The right girl._

 

Lyanna is that kind of girl. But Robert is not yet in a place where he can settle down. Not because he wishes to live the life or anything, he’s past that but – _I’ve two daughters, each from a different mother. Really, not just anyone would accept that kind of baggage._ Her crush had not subsided, clearly; Lyanna could keep her emotion as hidden as Ned but she had too much of a wildness in her to manage it all the time. It’s obvious, painfully so, and more often that not he’d thought to indulge, but Robert simply can’t let her get more attached to him without her knowing how things are with him right now. As it is, he’s already breaking so many of his self imposed rules by agreeing to this little charade. _It’s only a night, though, I can do it._

 

“Hey,” he stops her retreat, hopes anyone will mistake this for a brief lovers’ spat. “Come on, Stark, don’t be like that.” He’s still got his arm around her, so he pulls her closer. And this, _right here_ , is what he means by playing his part a bit too well. The hand on her hips squeezes a little, then settles to rubbing soothing circles over the sliver of skin that shows; he bring the other hand to her face, placing a finger under her chin to tilt her head back, make sure their eyes meet. “Lyanna… don’t be mad.”

 

She tries to look away, but he won’t let her and the pout is impossible to miss. “I’m not.”

 

He smirks. “Really?”

 

Honestly, if she knew how hard it is to control himself around her, the pull too strong. If she knew just how many cold showers he'd had to have because she chose to prance around the apartment in those goddamned shorts and baggy hoodies, a get-up that gave him far too many ideas. Gods but if she _knew_ – Lyanna would probably take charge of this situation, drag him to her room. _Fuck, but I’d let her._ He shakes his head, knowing it wouldn’t be right to tie her down on a relationship with him that would get too serious too soon. _Let her live a little._

 

“You have to know… how I feel, I’ve—”

 

“I know.”

 

Lyanna blinks, shocked, and he half expects her to show shame or regret. But of course she doesn't, _no_ , she squares up and looks at him right in the eyes.

 

“I like you, Robert,” she says confidently. “Sometimes it feels like—”

 

Screw it all, but when he kisses her then, a step away from desperate and pressing their bodies close, a hand splayed over her lower back while the other tangles in her hair. _When he kisses her_ , it's more than just a way to cut that sentence off. And damn this girl, of course she'd take this opportunity to kiss him back.

 

“I'm not good for you, Lya,” he tells her, in between kisses. “I've too much baggage.”

 

“Let me be the one to decide on that.”

  
Lyanna gives him one last lingering kiss before stepping back, and grabs his hand because, _right_ , they still need to finish this little game.


	2. day two, take one - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day Two: Jealousy_  
>  Canon-Div. Lyanna decides she won’t care about Robert’s infidelity, so long as he leaves her alone. Except, after a time, she does care. Very, very much.

_“Once you give him a son or two, he'll leave you alone, dear niece.”_

 

Why she's been thinking about Aunt Branda’s words, Lyanna cannot tell.  She can't say it's because of this trip up north they're making, this trip Robert had organized for her, so she can visit her brothers. No, because Aunt Branda is not really associated with Winterfell and The North in her mind, not like the rest of her family is. _So why?_ Lyanna wonders, yet the answer comes to her rather fast.

 

Robert's laughter is as unique as ever, even after six years of marriage, loud and bright and contagious. Sitting among their men and surrounded by _tavern wenches_. Briefly, something ugly twists in her guts before it fades, before she pushes it away. _It's the wine._ It's always given her more of a buzz than the ale. She moves among the tables, avoiding drunkards and groping hands for the sake of preventing her lord husband's outrage; she'd think it hypocritical, but Robert had done as requested, had kept his whoring under wraps when she's around and sired no more bastards after they’d wed, so she'll grant him this.

 

_“Give him a son or two, Lyanna, and he'll go back to bedding his whores. And you'll not have to bear his advances any longer.”_

 

A tavern wench, voluptuous and bold and with a plunging neckline gets too close to Robert, passes him another tankard as she pushes her tits into his chest. Her lord husband has not yet become aware of her presence, but it pleases her to see him lean back, grip the tankard tightly in one hand while the other grips his knee. It doesn't pleases her that much when his eyes fall onto what's been offered. The wench takes encouragement from that and the urge to growl nearly overcomes her, but Lyanna suppresses it. _It's the wine, the mixing of wines._ Dornish Red and Arbor Gold, she's not used to that.

 

“Robert.”

 

She seldom joins him in his drinking and merriment, but _sometimes_ , to keep up appearances, perhaps, and also because she enjoys it; despite Robert's bad habits and her disinterest in curbing it, Lyanna likes to show their people they are a team. Because they are. They may not have a loving marriage, not like the one her parents had before her lady mother passed away, or even like the one Ned has with Ashara – but they share enough affection and respect to make their companionship amenable.

 

_And four beautiful sons that need not know of their parents’ circumstances._

 

“Lyanna!” His grin is bright and easy, it's clear he's about to be too inebriated if he doesn't stops drinking soon. She takes away his tankard at the same time he pulls her into his arms, onto his lap. “My lady wife, where are the boys?”

 

“Asleep, already,” She hands the ale back to the tavern wench, asking for a refill as she gives her a wolfish smile before turning to Robert. “I've come to fetch you.”

 

His hands wander, more daring than usual  – he's definitely had enough to drink. “Maybe later, let's share a drink first.”

 

There's more wine and ale coming, her tankard is returned to her hands full and the company is pleasant enough that she begins to relax. Their men are a rowdy bunch when encouraged and amusing to watch and to listen; the wenches stay clear off her husband's reach and Robert keeps his eyes and hands on her. Soon comes the music, and not that much later comes the loss of all decorum – she's had enough ale by now that her world is pleasantly hazy, that she's feeling warm all over and Robert's solid body ignites dormant sensations Lyanna yearns to explore once more.

 

She turns to him, meets his grin, and kisses him. “Let's go to bed, husband.”

 

And now it is she the one who's had enough of drinking, _clearly_ , for Lyanna would not say such a thing of she were sober. Would not voice the invitation. But she's _not_ and when Robert picks her up and carries her to their shared rooms among raunchy jests and hearty laughter, she allows herself to enjoy it. The thought of what would happen, what she vaguely remembers from the handful of times they'd laid together. _I want it, I want him._ She lands on the feathered and her world spins.

 

“Robert…”

 

So Lyanna closes her eyes.

 

“Yes?”

 

And lets the sleep take over.

 

_“…I want another child, a little girl.”_

 

*****

 

They depart from the Crossroads Inn bright and early, as there's still a long way to go. The boys are loud and excited to be visiting their many cousins, as she is about visiting her brothers, all three of them, if Brandon's letter is to be true. _We'll all be home once again._ The very thought makes up for the seemingly endless travels at an agonizingly slow pace.

 

“How is your headache?”

 

Up ahead, Jon and Steffon race each other, pushing their new steeds, to see who is the better rider. Close by, Eddard and Edric ride their own at a slower pace, under the watchful eyes of Ser Balon and the other guards.

 

“Better,” says Lyanna. “Would if I could have your ability to shrug off the consequences of a night drinking, my life would be easier.”

 

The smirk shows it's a jest, but Robert takes enough time to respond she fears he took it the wrong way. Except, soon enough he's smiling at her, ambling his warhorse closer.

 

“Mixing wines, and then ale?” He chuckles. “You're not made for drinking, Lyanna.”

 

“It's been a while since I've had ale, I thought I might as well drink a tankard or two.”

 

“Or three or four?”

 

She doesn't quite succeed in suppressing her smile. “You've not had ale brought to Storm's End in a long time, only wine. And I know you prefer it.”

 

These rare moments are to be enjoyed, when he's not letting his eyes stray and she actually wishes things were different. Little moments of delusion Lyanna allows herself, the _what if_ that won't leave her alone as of late. _This is good_ , she thinks, _this companionship, this friendship. It's good and uncomplicated, I don't need more._ She still remembers the words she'd told him the night of their wedding, after they'd laid together, can't regret them because she'd meant every one of them.

 

_“I'll give you a son, perhaps more, and then you can go back to your whores, Robert, I won't keep you from them. I no longer care about it.”_

 

Perhaps she regrets the _timing_ – the way his expression fell before he retreated behind a mask of joy and light-hearted behavior, the flash of acute pain reflected in his eyes, that's not something she'll ever forget. But she won't regret the words. It'd been the truth then, she thinks, _and it is now. I don't need more._

 

_“All I ask is your discretion.”_

 

_“…and you shall have it, Lyanna.”_

 

“You prefer the wine.”

 

Robert's voice brings her back to the present; she gives him a lopsided smile. “Well, I've changed my mind. I want ale from now on.”

 

He laughs, always ever amused by her antics. “Is this a permanent change or will you be going back on your word?”

 

The boys choose that very moment to demand their father's attention, and with a quick kiss to her cheek, Robert urges his mount into a gallop to catch up with them.

 

Even alone, Lyanna cannot find it in herself to reply.

 

*****

 

What she doesn't understand, is this feeling that surges from within every time a woman tries to get the attention of her lord husband whenever she's not in the vicinity. Robert doesn't indulge beyond looking his fill, only sits there in the taverns or inns and enjoys the attention without reciprocating. But it still makes that ugly feeling coil inside, ready to snap. It's not like this is a new occurrence, Robert had always been handsome and well loved and admired by ladies, highborn and baseborn alike. She's always known this, it's never bothered her before. _So why now? Why would it matter now?_ They've made trips before, either together or alone, around the Stormlands and the North; she knows what he does when he's _alone_. And it's fine, she's sad she wouldn’t care, wouldn’t mind. _This is what I wanted, to be free of my husband's unwanted advances._

 

The irony, though…

 

His laughter is always something else, she muses, boisterous and from deep within, washing over her like a balm to her frayed nerves. _But it is not because of me, or the boys. It is not us who make him laugh this much, now._

 

The last inn they'll come across before crossing The Neck, and they've decided to rest for the day and night. The last inn – and it'd taken no time for Lyanna to see the recognition shining in Robert's blue eyes when those landed in one of the serving girls. Suddenly, she cannot take it, is quick to eat her food and make sure the boys do too—doing her very best to ignore the easy banter and flirtations—waits the appropriate amount of time before shepherding their sons up the stairs and into their rooms.

 

Their little ones, who are much too perceptive, _sometimes_ , much too attuned with her moods. Even the youngests, who were not yet three.

 

“Should I beat Papa in the training yard, Mama?”

 

Steffon looks expectantly at her, awaiting his answer; the son who loves her best. Lyanna does not play favorites, or tries not to, but she'll admit her second son will always hold a special place in her heart. The one who looks every bit the Baratheon and is not shy to name her the favorite parent, picking her side over everything, no matter how small the discussion. Not so the twins, who change favorites every other hour. Or Jon, her first born, who idolizes his father greatly, he'd much rather not choose a favorite.

 

“Mama?”

 

She smiles. “Oh? Why would you do that?”

 

“He's made you upset,” says Steffon as he crawls onto her lap. “I'll tell him to stop! He should not make you upset.”

 

“He's not upset me, sweetling.”

 

Then Jon comes closer, looking concerned. “Are you certain?”

 

 _Yes_ , she wants to say. But how can she explain what she feels to her boys? That she's not upset but _angry_ , not hurt but _jealous_. How to explain that she's suddenly decided she doesn't want their father to bed another woman even if she's not yet sure if she wants him to bed her? Wants to blame the wine, but she's only had ale tonight. Lyanna smiles nonetheless, stroking her boys’ cheeks.

 

That's when Robert comes in, face tinted red, and looking the most pleased since they left Storm's End. Her heart flutters, skips several beats, while the jealousy struggles to make itself known. The twins run at him head on, crash into his legs as Robert laughs and bends to pick them up and place each one on a shoulder. He turns in a circle, kicking the door closed, and then walks towards her.

 

“Oh-oh, why is Steffon glaring at me?”

 

The twins answer in unison: “You made Mama upset!”

 

His smile dims immediately as he looks at her, worry pushing to the surface, so she she shakes her head. “You've not—”

 

“But something did.”

 

 _The wench from downstairs._ Lyanna shakes her head again, hopes he won't press for an answer, and Robert doesn't, he understands her enough to know she needs to move at her own pace. Yet still, the disappointment at his silent agreement to respect her wishes _hurts_. _I'm being ridiculous._

 

Jon gives her a questioning glance, hopeful as he waits for her grin to run at Robert and jump into his arms. “Father, you promised to tell us a story!”

 

Can't begrudge the boys’ devotion to their father, for Robert has proven to be equally devoted to them. Kissing Steffon softly on the head, Lyanna smiles still, with a hint of satisfaction, because she knows at the end of the day they all loved her best.

 

“Alright!” Robert sits on the floor, close by her side. “What story would you little rascals like?”

 

Eddard is quick to reply. “The story of how you saved Mama from bad men from the mountain clans!”

 

She arches an eyebrow at Robert, smirks; more there's a story she'd like to here.

 

“The story of when you saved Uncle Ned!” Edric exclaims instead.

 

Jon moves closer, looking excited. “The legends to the Storm Kings!”

 

Robert hums, tilts his head back some and then grins. “Aye…”

 

He begins with Durran Godsgrief, as Lyanna knew he would, the tale of the first Storm King being a favorite of both Jon and Robert, for the wonder and magic involved, the forbidden love and sheer stubbornness that Robert swears it's a trait that every Baratheon inherited from then. Halfway through the telling, he switches to the heroic rescue of his lady from the evil, _evil_ clansmen and then the rescue of her brother. Somewhere along the line, Bran the Builder makes an appearance, then the timelines start to get mixed up but the boys are enjoying it all.

 

It takes many tales for Steffon to finally leave his place on her lap and move towards Robert, and then some more for all of them to start succumbing to sleep. Gently, she coaxes Jon into waking long enough for him to walk to the adjoining room; she picks up Steffon while Robert gets the twins, their little Neds. Once they're all tucked in, they step out and stand for a moment in the hallway.

 

Robert trails his fingers over her arm to get her attention. “Will you tell me what upset you?”

 

“Will you be going back to drink?”

 

“…I'm done for the night.”

 

 _It's the necessity of sharing a bed while on the road_ , she thinks, tries to rationalize, decides. There's no other reason for this unexpected surge of possessiveness that's assaulting her left and right. Spending so much time in close quarters, _and the damn wine._ Or ale, whichever she had for supper, certainly is getting to her. She walks back into their rooms and he follows.

 

Alone in the dim firelight, however, facing the prospect of another night resting beside her husband, another night in which he subconscious will betray her and have her roll into his arms – Lyanna cannot lie to herself. Cannot use the wine or the ale or the circumstances as excuses. _I do not want to share him, I should not have to, I…_

 

“Lyanna?” Robert grabs her hand and turns her around to face him. “Will you tell me?”

 

“Why won't you come to my bed?”

 

The reaction is instantaneous; he grins. “We share it every night—”

 

“Robert…”

 

His grin fades and he sighs. “Because you asked me not to, remember?”

 

She does remember.

 

Robert huffs and goes to their bed, sits down and begins taking off his boots. “You made it clear. You've given me sons, you've done your duty, you'll not endure any other advances from me.”

 

“I – remember the night the twins were conceived?” Lyanna's at a lost of how to respond and quickly realizing her words might’ve done more damage than good. “It was a good night.”

 

A celebration held to honor her nineteenth nameday, with food and drink and fun aplenty. Lyanna had been pleasantly surprised, more so since Robert had gone out of his way to keep it a secret. It had been a good day, and then a good night. _A very good night._ Robert looks up, meets her gaze intently; the heat climbs up her neck and pools between her thighs, the memories of that night all too vivid.

 

“Aye, it was a good night,” he replies, voice rough, before his expression shutters again and he goes back to undressing. “But it was only a moment of fun. A lapse in judgment.”

 

Lyanna winces, the words she'd uttered that night a slurred command she meant to clarify but couldn't.

 

_“Don't get comfortable.”_

 

“I didn't mean…” She sits by his side, waiting until she has his attention. “I wasn't asking you to leave.”

 

“Fuck, _Lyanna_ ,” he rubs his eyes. “You cannot _just_ – I thought you didn't want me?”

 

“I've changed my mind.”

 

She hopes it's not too late.

 

He laughs, the disbelief leaking through the cracks in his facade. “Are you in your cups? Did you have more ale than you could handle?”

 

“No! I—” Her indignant protests go unheard.

 

“It makes you overly affectionate.”

 

“Have I – has _this_ happened before?”

 

He sighs. “Every time you drink ale.”

 

Suddenly, some things begin to make sense. “Is that why you no longer have it brought to Storm's End?”

 

Robert looks at her with so much love and devotion she would have to be blind not to see. _But I've been blind_ , she thinks, _this isn't a recent occurrence._

 

“It's hard to control myself around you,” his confession is not surprising, he's also very open with his affections for her when in his cups. “I didn't want to risk taking advantage of you…”

 

It's too much for her; Robert, _her husband_ , big and strong and fearless, suffering because of the careless words she'd thrown at him in her childish petulance, her selfish rebellion. Not once thinking of the consequences.

 

“If you'd let me—”

 

“You know I'd let you.”

 

Lyanna huffs exasperated, feeling hope bloom in her chest when Robert grins at her, even if not as wide as usual.

 

“Let me finish.”

 

“I love you—” He tells her this often enough, but now it sounds like _something more_. “Lyanna, anything you want, I'll give it to you.”

 

“I don't want to share you,” she blurts out. “I don't – you're _mine_ , Robert Baratheon, and I won't share you with anyone else.” Inches closer, until their foreheads touch – she wants him to see and means this. “Do not think you're taking advantage of me, I'm your wife.”

 

His hands move to cradle her face; he's shaking. “You’re mine, too, then?”

 

“Yes.”

  
Robert takes a deep breath, lips ghosting over hers. _“Good.”_


	3. day three, take one - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day Three - “I thought you were a dream come true.”_  
>  Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom AU. Lyanna won't admit it, but Mr. Targaryen's cousin is quite something.

“If I were a sappy bastard—” Robert flashes her that may or may not have an effect on her. “I'd say, from the moment I met you, I thought you were a dream come true.”

 

The T-Rex huffs in its sleep, shifts its massive head to the left and Lyanna must hurry to move out of the way, flatten herself against the side of the cage lest she ends up crushed against it. Not something she can afford now, not when Winter's life depends on her, on successfully completing this task. After the prehistoric beast stops moving, she takes a deep breath, relaxing some, and looks up to meet Robert's easy grin – but before that, she takes in the way his thighs keep him steady atop the T-Rex’s neck.

 

“You sure you don't wanna give this a go?”

 

“Robert, this is not a game,” she replies, very nearly snaps. “So, please—”

 

“Right, sorry.” It fades some, his grin, and a part of her regrets it. With a deep breath, he plunges the tube into the beast’s neck; the blood rushes into the plastic bag quickly. “We need to save Winter.”

 

It's the use of the name, whereas before he always called it “the beast”, what softens her now; Lyanna sighs, slowly shifts away from the possible line of vision of the T-Rex, and begins to climb its back. Robert helps her with the hand not holding the _needle_ they're using for the blood and lets her free rest against his broad back.

 

“I don't mean to be rude,” she begins, "I'm trying not to judge you by your cousin's actions but—” Lyanna only needs to close her eyes to picture it; Rhaegar Targaryen’s soft gaze, his understanding and encouraging words, _his promises of help_ , all of it. Fucking bastard told her point blank he'd _use her_ , but his sweet words made it all sounds so noble and nice. “I hate it. What he _did_. How he used me to _hunt Winter_ – I raised that raptor, I…”

 

“We'll save your raptor.” Robert grins at her over his shoulder, squeezes her hands, that just now she realizes she'd wrapped around his waist. “We'll save all the dinosaurs. And then I'll beat the crap out of my dear cousin, I promise.”

 

The ship rocks violently, shaking the truck that has the cage and subsequently making the T-Rex shift again, stirring some. Lyanna closes her eyes and holds her breath, hoping it won't wake up now. _Gods, not now, we're almost done. Don't wake up now!_ It shifts and huffs and seems to want to knock them off its neck. But she has a firm hold on Robert and he manages to keep a steady grip with his powerful frame.

 

And it's calm again, the plastic bag is nearly full and soon, _soon_ , they'll be back to Winter’s side.

 

“It helps that you look nothing like him,” says Lyanna, after a few moments.

 

“Good to know my grandfather's genes are once more my saving grace.”

 

She chuckles and relaxes once more. Lyanna does not think of why she hugs him tighter, why she scoots closer to him – they're sitting on a goddamned dinosaur – but remembers him breaking through the treeline to save her from being incinerated by lava, remembers his passionate vow to help her rescue these animals, his strength and unlikely charm. And the fact that he's walked into the cage of a massive predator to retrieve its blood simply because _she asked_.

 

Really, Robert Baratheon is _something_.

 

“If I were a sappy girl – I'd be probably _swooning_ at all you've done for me.” And she might be, _a little_. “But I'm not, just as you're not a sappy bastard.”

 

He makes a sound of triumph, then, leans down and when he straightens up again, it's with a bag full of the much needed blood. Whatever elation she might have felt is quickly eroded when the doors to the cage close unexpectedly.

 

_“The fuck are you doing?”_

 

_“This one was open! Wasn't gonna leave it like that!”_

 

Of course, the T-Rex chooses that precise moment to wake, to tilt its head _just so_ that it can see them. Begins to trash, Lyanna nearly topples over but holds onto Robert. He struggles to stay in place, but it's hard.

 

“Slip through the bars above us! Quick!”

 

She doesn't question his words, hoists herself up and through the top bars, braces her feet on the roof of the cage before turning to find Robert holding out the bag – she takes it.

 

“Robert, climb – no!”

 

With her heart in her throat she watches him fall and get lost under the dinosaur’s massive form. Lyanna tries to catch a glimpse of him, tries to stay afoot, but it's hard with all the shaking, of being caught by one of the Targaryen henchmen. _The task is done_ , she thinks, should be going back to the truck where Winter waits for her but – _but_. She curses under her breath and climbs down the cage after making sure no one's around. _But for how long? Dammit, Robert._ The doors are secured with an extra lock now; the shaking, the commotion, it's all bound to get unwanted attention. He might’ve served in the military, but this is no soldier he's up against.

 

_“Goddammit, Robert.”_

 

“Hey, don't go getting mad at me.”

 

She yelps and turns and takes a swing at him that he barely avoids, a grin on his face, along with a cut under his right eye and another on his arm. Indignant, she pinches his uninjured arm.

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Idiot! What were you _thinking_?”

 

“That I either took my chances dropping off its back or I was going to be crushed once it pushed me up against the roof of the cage.” He shrugs. “I'm good, so… You have the blood?”

 

Lyanna sighs, exasperated, and nods. “Let's go.”

 

She won't deny being relieved, very relieved, but also very upset by his stupid risk. But _Robert_ , she's known him for a few days and he's already slipping through her defenses. A stupid, shocking occurrence, _considering_.

 

“So neither of us are the sappy kind – what do we do then?”

 

His question comes along his ever present grin as they near the truck where he raptor is being looked after Dacey.

 

Lyanna considers him, and then smirks, because she's got a pretty good idea of what he'll say. “What do you have in mind?”

 

“How soon can I get you on your back?” _Nailed it._ From zero to a hundred, this man does not wastes time nor is he the kind to mince words. “I mean, if you prefer the conventional way to do this, I'm good too.”

 

Lyanna scoffs, repressing a smile because she actually appreciates his straightforward attitude, to be fair. “Not any time soon, even by conventional means.” She smirks again. “Not before I get you on _your back_ first.”

 

She climbs into the back of the truck, handing the bag to Dacey, who gets to work right away. Robert follows, presses close to her, and uses her friend's distraction to whisper:

 

“I'm good with that too.”


	4. day four, take one - robert/lyanna & aegon/sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-div. Where Rhaegar crowns not Lyanna Stark, but Lyanna Baratheon, and shit hits the fan differently. Some years later.

[Early 283AC]

 

He hasn’t seen her this angry since the Tourney of Harrenhal, his wolf maiden.

 

She snarls and squares up in front of him, draws the bowstring and keeps her aim true and steady, the arrow pointing at his chest.

 

And he remembers that first night of the event, after the feast—they’d been married for a moon’s turn, yet he’d not laid with her—even _now_ , after 2 years, he’s not done so still, waiting for her to consent fully and with a clear head, because she _wants to_ and not because she must. _“I'm no paragon of virtue, my lady, but I won't lay with a girl of four-and-ten.”_ ‘Tis what he’d said; Lyanna had been barely a woman then, if that, and Robert had not liked the hesitation lurking in her eyes every time they had to share a bed, even if it’d only been to sleep.

 

_But that first night of the Tourney…_

 

She had raged and paced their assigned chambers like a caged wolf, mumbling about knights and lack of honor; he’d had to step into her path to get her to calm down and _explain_. He’d floundered, left staring at her speechless once she’d told him, fury boiling beneath her skin, why it was she took that little crannogman under her protection, and how it was she wanted to get retribution. Her hastily made plans spilling past her lips as she tried to justify herself, thinking his silence meant disapproval _when_ – when it’d meant something else. Wonder, admiration. Another kind of respect brimming if she managed to pull it off— _and days later, she had_ —but first, Robert had laughed, from deep in his belly and planted a kiss to her lips and told her he would help.

 

And that little adventure, it had been what made Lyanna begin to relax around him; what made them progress for chaste and polite kisses that were more to keep up appearances to _real kisses_. Full on the mouth and amidst tender embraces; Robert had struggled against his instincts to move things along, to let his hands wander, _push for more_. Struggled a great deal and then _some_ , but he’d managed and Lyanna had softened enough to him to tell him she appreciated it, soft words mumbled against his back one night as they got ready for bed. The night before she was to make her debut as the Mystery Knight.

 

Before King Aerys’ paranoia took over. _Before dear cousin Rhaegar thought he could get away with crowning my wife as Queen of Love and Beauty_ , he thinks, frowning as his memories turn sour alarmingly fast. _Honoring her bravery, he said, gormless little_ — Robert shakes his head, trying to dispel those thoughts. But it’s no use, after all, it is because of Rhaegar that Brandon reacted harshly and was exiled. Nearly executed for treason, if he and the Prince hadn’t hastened to pacify the King. But the damage had been done, already, and all the rage Robert had held back to avoid a scandal, he’d unleashed it later on as he’d confronted his cousin alone, uncaring of his guards.

 

But a punch will never be enough to make up for the damage caused. The first request his lady wife asked of him – her chin trembling as she grabbed his arm, grey eyes blinking rapidly to stop the onslaught of tears, _the way her voice broke—_

 

_“Robert, please, don't let them send my brother away!”_

 

—and he couldn't do anything about it. Could not stop the Kingsguard from taking Brandon away and to the nearest port, with barely enough gold on him to survive. Could not stop Lyanna from crumbling into his arms once they were out of _sight_.

 

Truly, the punch he'd given Rhaegar would never be enough.

 

A soft whoosh and the feel of fletches ghosting over his cheek snaps his attention to the here and now, to the furious she-wolf that’d laid in wait until he stepped into her den to pounce; the thud of the arrow sinking into the wood of the door behind him makes him smirk.

 

Lyanna growls, reaches for another arrow before taking aim. “You believe I jest, my lord?”

 

“I wouldn't dare take this matter lightly, my lady.”

 

“Do you deny spending your nights in the town's brothel, then?”

 

“I do,” he says and hurries to placate her when she hisses angrily at him. “You make it sound as if it's an everyday occurrence! It's not.”

 

Another arrow flies by, close enough to tickle his ear, and he's sorely tempted to turn and witness her accuracy because the sound of tearing wood is shocking. _Did she hit the same place?_ Wants to know, but won't give Lyanna another reason to be mad at him. Gods be damned, but he's tried to be faithful – had listened to Ned's warning _and tried_ , truly, but his needs overwhelm him at times. Taking himself in hand is not enough and he finds himself stepping through the door into the nearest brothel, for some quick relief, although _after_  after that he questions his decision because the guilt is almost unbearable. And he hasn’t, he truly hasn’t visited the brothels more than a handful of times.

 

Another arrow points at his chest, knows she's missing her mark on purpose; Lyanna glares. “You're shouldn't be spending any time in there _at all_ ,” her tone is sharp and cold, yet he's come to know her well enough to spy the hurt lurking underneath. “If you won't bed _me_ , you oughtn’t bed anyone else! Or I will find the pleasure you _deny_ me elsewhere!”

 

The growls rips through his chest viciously at the thought, the very notion of anyone else laying their hands on her; he matches her glare for glare, takes a step forward and the arrow is set loose again, only _this time_ – this time, the tip makes a thin cut across his cheek. _Mind your temper, Robert Baratheon._ He's no desire to lose it with Lyanna, not when her allegations are valid and he's the one at fault here. _She's hurt, she's just lashing out._

 

“I don't—” He huffs, pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to a fucking hundred to calm down. “I'm not denying you, I just… don't want to _push_ you. I swore to you, didn't I? It'll happen when _you_ want.”

 

Her arms relax, bow and arrow descending, and she frowns. “I _wanted_ it to happen last night.”

 

The confession surprises them both, thought while it pleases him greatly, Lyanna looks like she truly had not expected to say it. Robert closes the distance between them quickly, abruptly, she’s no time to take aim so discards the bow and arrow, that she’s probably taken from the armory, and turns around. For a brief moment, he thinks she would simply try to give him the cold shoulder, something he has learned how to deal with – diffusing his lady wife’s temper isn’t really a hard thing to do, when you know _how_ to do it. But it is not a cold shoulder what halts his steps but a blade pointing at him, another thing taken from the armory, much too heavy for her slight frame by the looks of it.

 

“You do realize you’re acting like a child, yes?”

 

“Because I refuse to be the compliant wife you expected?” The tip of the blade presses against his chest. “Forgive me, _my lord,_  clearly my education was lacking. _Why_ , someone must’ve forgotten to teach me to bear my husband’s unfaithfulness _in silence_.”

 

Ah, his she-wolf will never cease to amaze him, he’s sure. At the same time, it is clear she’ll never cease to frustrate him either. Robert’s quick to bat the sword away and grab her wrist.

 

“I hope shooting arrows and pointing a sword at my chest will not be your immediate reaction every time you’re upset—”

 

“I am _not_!”

 

“—because that’s not how things work!” And if he sounds a bit amused, it can’t be helped. “We should try… _talking_.”

 

Which is not something he excels at, really, not when it comes to his _feelings_. He’d much rather _act_ on them. As he’d done the night before, when he had indulged a tad too long, let himself get carried away as they kissed – to his shame, had it not been for her soft gasp of _“wait” ,_  Robert’s sure he wouldn’t have stopped. Can he be faulted for excusing himself and beating a hasty retreat? He’d been too shaken, _too lustful_ , and had not wanted to risk doing something he would regret later.

 

“I do not want to talk.”

 

“What do you want, then?”

 

“I want you to f—” The way she cuts herself off says it all; the blush that paints her cheeks is, as far as he’s concerned, just a bonus. “ _Fight_ me.”

 

So he smirks, lifts her hand by the wrist higher, and says, “you’re so small though.”

 

With her free hand Lyanna beats at his chest, lacking much of the anger that plagued her earlier; it’s a half-hearted attempt at making him stop laughing, and soon there’s no resistance when he nudges her to drop the sword and pull her into his arms, when he carries to her bed amidst little kisses and more laughter.

 

“My little she-wolf, for all you claim not to be a Baratheon,” he says, grinning widely, “you are the perfect embodiment of our words. Might as well say it – _ours is the fury_.”

 

She scoffs, pushes him back onto the bed and then lies back next to him. “You are an _infuriating_ man, Robert Baratheon, did you know that?”

 

“Aye, I know. You never fail to remind me.” He rolls onto his side to look at her properly. “But then, so are you, _Lyanna Baratheon_.”

 

“I want you to stop visiting brothels,” she replies instead, all hints of humor gone. “I know my lord father asked you not to get me with child before I turn six-and-ten, at least, but that doesn't mean we can't…” Lyanna bites her bottom lip; the sight makes his blood hum, wants to nip at it himself. “You shouldn't have to go looking for pleasure someplace else if—”

 

“Alright, I won't,” he says, interrupts, and leans closer to kiss her sweetly. “Not again. I swear it.”

 

She nods, blushes a little and turns onto her side, pressing her reddened face into his chest. “I've… Aunt Branda said there are many things we can do still, without risking me getting with child. She said I ought to ask you, that you know _all_ about that.”

 

Briefly, Robert wonders if he can forbid Branda Rogers from coming near his young bride again, knows he can't, not only because it would be suspect to shun the Lady of Amberly without a reason, but also because she _is_ Lyanna's dear aunt. He's lucky that his wolf maiden did not catch the meaning of those words.

 

“I do know _some_ , but I fear you won't like it.” Highborn ladies rarely approved of the things he was offered _eagerly_ in brothels. “There are some things a man just doesn't _do_ with his lady wife.”

 

“How is that fair?” Lyanna rolls them over until she hovers above him, both hands planted firmly on his shoulders. “Why is it _you_ who gets to decide what I will or will not like?”

 

“Ladies just don't—”

 

“Well, I do _not_ accept that,” she snaps, takes a fortifying breath before declaring boldly: “You should know by now that I am not like your southrons ladies, I am a daughter of the North, and I shall have the final say in this matter.” There's a pause, and her tone loses some of its bite. “Once, you told me I should never try to hide my true self, that you would… that you would _love me_ , no matter what.”

 

“And I meant every word.”

 

“I’m telling you the same now. Robert, you don’t need to hide your true self from me.” Another pause and his breath hitches; her voice drops to a soft whisper. “I won’t stop loving you just because I don’t approve of your vices, though I hope you don’t hold too tightly to them. So… let _me_ decide. Let us try what you know – _show me_. If I don’t like something you do, I will tell you.”

 

Robert groans, brings her down for a desperate kiss right after he mumbles his agreement. Aye, he won’t be bedding his bride unless it’s what she wants – and now it is, now she wants, so his feebles restrains snap rather quickly.

 

“So—” Sinful, _sinful_ little thing, with her smirks and tantalizing defiance— “ _f_ _ight me_ , Lord Baratheon.”

 

She gives him no time to reply.

 

******

[Early 300AC]

 

Storm's End is as lively as ever.

 

The ancestral seat of first the Storm Kings of House Durrandon, and then of House Baratheon, Lords Paramount of the Stormlands. She knows all about the boring, technical facts about it; one of the strongest castles in the realm, surrounded by a massive outer curtain wall, a hundred feet tall, she’s read, and some think nothing could ever pass through by sheer force. And then there's the single, colossal tower that raises above it and provides both a warning and a wonderful view. A giant, spiked fist, Sansa’s heard it been described once, and has to agree, for no other description would fit so well when looking at the castle from afar. All of that, Sansa knows, has read and learned, but what she _loves_ about this place, it’s the magical tale that surround its construction; the magic woven into the stonework, designed to protect any who carried the blood of Durran Godsgrief. She loves to hear Uncle Robert’s version of the last castle built, the one who stood strong against the God’s ire, how a young boy who would later grow to become Bran the Builder helped, and how that’s the very beginning of the everlasting relationship between Houses Stark and Baratheon. Those tales and the wonder, and the magical view of Shipbreaker’s Bay, are among the things Sansa loved best about the place.

 

What makes it come alive for her, and now there’s another dear reason to add to the list.

 

The sixteenth nameday of Joy Baratheon, first born of Lord and Lady Baratheon and the heir to the Stormlands, has gathered family and friends a plenty. All the Great Houses of Westeros have been invited, even if not all were attending, and all the Stormlands, to the tourney being held in her name.

 

Sansa had been happily naming all the houses currently present that she can see—House Arryn, House Tyrell, House Tully, House Martell; Estermont, Buckler, Connington, Fell, Cafferen, Lonmouth, Grandison, Penrose, Morrigen, Rogers, Tarth and many, many more—as their carriage neared the great castle. Trying to engage Arya into conversation though her little sister would simply roll her eyes, despite Mother’s reproaches, and tell her she didn’t care. Because they weren’t alone Sansa refrained from snapping back, not wishing to displease her lady mother. By the time their carriage stops, she had finished listing every single house mentally, while ignoring Arya’s complaints about why she had to ride the carriage _at all_.

 

“Even Rickon got to ride, and he’s only five!”

 

“And you are one-and-ten, young lady—”

 

“Nymeria is feeling anxious.”

 

The doors open then, and Jory stands there with a smile, extending his hand to help them out of the carriage. Before Sansa can even move, Arya is rushing out, nearly knocking her over in her excitement and once more ignoring Mother’s scoldings. Among chuckles and laughter, the loudest of which belonging to Uncle Robert, Arya runs straight to Aunt Lyanna mindless of the proper protocol that they ought to be following. _Can’t even behave for appearances’ sake._ But their aunt minds not, accepts the enthusiastic embrace, as Nymeria bounds around them excitedly, with as much exuberance and it makes something in her want to stomp her feet and whine about _the unfairness of it all_. It hurts a little too, though Sansa knows her thoughts hold no true to them – _but it hurts_ , because it always seems like Arya is Aunt Lyanna’s favorite.

 

Jory helps her down the carriage and she waits for him to help Mother too; Lady appears by her side quietly, nudging her cheek softly, seeking to be petted, which Sansa does. Before she can wonder why Father isn’t the one helping them down the carriage, as he's wont to do, she notices him in serious conversation with Uncle Robert. It is an oddity, as they are always quick to smile whenever they are together, as far as Sansa can remember. Now it isn’t so, and the reason why is delivered to her by Robb, her dear big brother who comes to escort her closer to the group along with Grey Wind, while Mother walks ahead of them.

 

“Look,” he says, with a smile and wide eyes, tilting his head to the side. “The reason why Grandfather didn’t come”

 

Sansa turns and must cover a gasp with her hand, for this is the first time she’s seen banner of House Targaryen flying next to those of House Stark and House Baratheon. She’s heard the story, the real version and the one whispered in corners by the servants, _insidious_ , that spoke of a scandalous tryst that broke the bond between cousins and sent her Uncle Brandon into exile. She pays no attention to lies, cares only for the truth as only her family knows it. Father had called it a mistake on King Rhaegar’s, _then Prince_ , part; Uncle Robert called it an _offense_ , the foolish act of a man who thought could get away with anything.

 

Sansa turns her attention to her aunt, where she stands close by peppering Rickon’s face with kisses, and then turns back to Robb. “Is that why Uncle Robert looked… _angry_?”

 

“Mmm, Father isn’t pleased either.”

 

“Sansa!”

 

The call of her name has her jumping in fright, almost as if she were being caught in some mischief. Robb laughs and lets go of her arm, and she finds herself being pulled into a tight hug as her feet leave the ground, she smiles nonetheless, even if she thinks it’s a bit too much.

 

“Hello, Uncle Robert,” she says, once he puts her down.

 

Uncle Robert grins widely, his hands holding her shoulders gently as he beholds her. “Look at you! Each day growing more and more into a beautiful lady!” He taps her chin and leans down, pretending to be telling her a great secret. “Already surpassing your mother, I say. And of course, this wolf of yours remains as gentle as ever,” he adds, running a hand over Lady's head.

 

Sansa giggles at his antics, notes pleased as her faithful companion sits perfectly content with the attention. “Thank you, uncle.”

 

“It's a direwolf, not a wolf, Robert. Now, don't hog my niece.” Quickly, she's passed over her aunt, who embraces her gently, kissing both her cheeks. “Sansa! You’ve grown!” Aunt Lyanna tucks a wayward lock of her back into place; there is none of the loud enthusiasm she's displayed while greeting Arya, but despite her worries from earlier, it doesn't bother her. “Are you looking forward to the activities? And the jousts?”

 

Sansa smiles brightly, already excited about it. “Yes! Very much so.”

 

Sansa has never before been to a Tourney, but the tales about them always left her sighing wistfully, yearning she would, one day. After Harrenhal, it would seem no one dared for a long while, and when someone would host a Tourney, her family never attended. So she very much hopes nothing happens during this one, so there may come many more.

 

“Catelyn tells me you plan to compete in the jousts,” her aunt says, turning to Robb.

 

Her brother smiles, puffing up a little. “Yes, I've been training hard for this event.”

 

Uncle Robert comes to wrap an arm around Robb's shoulders. “Is that so? Think you can win?”

 

“I've unhorsed Ser Rodrik many times at Winterfell, but I know that doesn't guarantees that I'll win.”

 

“That's true.”

 

“I hope to hold my own against the likes of Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur, though.”

 

“You'll be fine, kid,” Uncle Robert claps his hand on Robb's back as they begin to climb the stairs.

 

Aunt Lyanna smiles at their backs fondly, before turning to her. “There won't be anyone above the age of twenty competing,” she says, in hushed tones, as if a secret.

 

“Oh, why?”

 

That is a bit disappointing; Sansa had been looking forward to see Ser Arthur compete. They begin to ascend the stairs towards the castle while Lady runs off with her brothers and sister.

 

“Your Uncle says it's so aspiring young knights might display their skills and find sponsoring. But I know him, Robert wants no _old lecherous men_ crowing any of his daughters or nieces,” she rolls her eyes, and then aims a bright grin at her. “But he's been forgiven, because he's brought many singers to Storm's End, just for you and I.”

 

“Truly?”

 

Now that can easily make up for the lack of the famed knight riding in the jousts.

 

“Truly.”

 

“So long as the songs do not make my wolf wife cry, and no one brings a harp, I'll rest assured it was gold well spent.”

 

Sansa gasps, looks at Uncle Robert, who'd retraced his steps, and then Aunt Lyanna, expects to see frowns and disapproval, but finds an expression reminiscent of Arya when she would scoff and roll her eyes at all things ladylike. Finds a lopsided smile and a defiant tilt of a chin, an unknown feeling lurking beneath an intense stare.

 

“Behave, my lord,” Aunt Lyanna says. “Lest I order you to _fight me_.”

 

Uncle Robert smirks, grabs her aunt's free hand and presses a kiss to it. “You're so small though.”

 

They stop. Up ahead, Sansa can see her brothers and sister and cousins walking into the castle, Mother and Father trailing behind them, then she focuses back on her aunt and uncle.

 

Sansa wonders if she's being witness to a private moment between husband and wife; she's never seen her parents in the privacy of their chambers, even alone in the godswood or the glass gardens, so she wouldn't really know. Are all wedded couples like this? Exchanging intense looks and smiles and tender touches? Are _her parents_ like this? _Perhaps they are, perhaps that's why they keep it behind closed doors._ Her cheeks bloom with heat, eyes dropping in an attempt to give them a measure of privacy; moments that feel eternal before they resume their walk.

 

Her curiosity won't hold for long. “How would you fight him, Aunt Lyanna?”

 

“What?”

 

“How would you fight Uncle Robert? He's right, you're so much smaller than him.”

 

“Oh, um…”

 

The rosy tint spreading across her cheeks confuses Sansa and she's not a chance to ask as Uncle Robert begins laughing, and, not long after, they've caught up with the rest of her family.

 

“Robert, shall we?”

 

Father looks solemn, more than usual, it's enough to put an end to her uncle's merriment.

 

“I suppose, no time like present time.”

 

“Robert, be quick about,” says Aunt Lyanna, all hints of the tender moment shared gone. “Try not to lose your temper.”

 

“Fear not, my lady, I've a better control of it thanks to you.”

 

“Hey…!”

 

Her cousins giggle at their parents’ antics and gentle banter; soon enough Aunt Lyanna takes it upon herself to escort them to their assigned chambers.

 

*****

 

The opening feast is everything she expected it to be _and more_.

 

The foods and the drinks are as outstanding and plentiful as she expected from Uncle Robert, the ambience music not as soothing as one would hope, but no one ever accused her uncle of being it in his celebrations. Sansa enjoyed the food, the foreign flavors assaulting her senses, took a sip, or several, of the wine and hoped her parents would not be reproachful, but mostly enjoyed the lemoncakes that were placed right in front of her after the main course had passed. She'd not engaged much in conversation, having no interest in what Arya and Eddara discussed, nor in what Bran was telling Cassana; Joy had been called over by the King and Robb had left some minutes ago to sit close by some ladies from The Reach.

 

As if summoned by her thoughts, her dear brother appears by her side, grin bright and cheeky and performing an overly exaggerated bow. She's confused up to the point when she realizes the low tables are being pushed up against the walls, to make way for the dancing that is to come.

 

Sansa laughs and accepts the offered hand. “You only do this so no one else may dance with me.”

 

“It is my duty as your brother to save you from dancing with utterly dull men.”

 

But first they must wait.

 

The music changes, turns lively and upbeat, and the initial tension that had lurked underneath at first as her aunt and uncle escorted both King and Queen to the high table, as they'd sat there next to them, is quick to vanish from the Great Hall once the dancing begins.

 

Uncle Robert makes a grand show of asking for Aunt Lyanna's hand in this first dance, under the piercing stares of guests and family alike, the Lady Baratheon accepts with a smile that could be called a smirk and a curtsy. Her feet barely touch the recently emptied floor, when one of his hands grabs her firmly around the waist and lifts her, spinning around twice before setting her down. Sansa is not familiar with all the southron dances there are, knows the ones from the Riverlands by heart but only because her lady mother was rather eager to teach her. Knows that most southrons dances are similar in tune and steps. But this one is different - she feels her body hum in anticipation, the drums and bells and flutes picking up into a much beloved northern reel.

 

Uncle Robert lets go of Aunt Lyanna's waist, she takes her cue, spins away, skirts flaring in response to the rapid movement, he pulls her back into his arms. Grabs her waist and lifts her up for a spin, turning in a circle twice; once her feet touch the ground again, they step back and then forth, their right hands never breaking their hold—an oddity because, usually, only the palms of the hand ought to touch, but her aunt and uncle, they forgo much of the little details in order to make the dance _their own_. A step back, a step forth, turn around in circle; he grabs her waist, firmly, her hands slide over his shoulders, gets off the ground, the Lady Baratheon is spun around in the air once before touching the floor. A booming laugh, a grin – she spins out of his arms amidst flaring skirts, though this time there's no pulling her back; a break in the usual steps, the Lord Baratheon follows, chases his lady among cheers and stomping feet and clapping hands. He catches her.

 

 _He catches her._ An arm around her slender waist as her own circles his neck, their hands slide to align together, fingers entwined once more; their cheeky grins melt, become a soft pull of the corners of their lips. And they spin, slowly draw a circle where they stand, slowly – as if the world around them no longer exists.

 

Sansa must look away, face reddening as the feeling of _intruding_ sweeps over her.

 

Robb taps her shoulder, gets her attention, inclining his head with a grin. “Ready?”

 

It's then she realizes other couples have joined their hosts in the dancing, the band switches to a southron song. She spies Mother and Father among the couples, and without further ado, Robb leads her in the steps, a little familiar, enough that she may let the music take her, trusts her partner enough to know they'll not falter. Sansa is the better dancer, but Robb is good as well. Right palms touching, they step forth, come together side by side, then back and forth again, turn in a semicircle and take a final step back; they draw their hands back, and it's a step to the left for her, to the right for him, switching places with whomever stands next to them, and another step, palms touching once more – and repeat.

 

The night drags on, Sansa begs Robb for one more dance over and over, until her dear brother must beg off with a smile and together they go back to the table. Prince Aegon is there, smiling bright as he thanks her cousin for their dance; he places a kiss to the back of Joy's hand before turning to walk away, gifting Sansa with a smile and a nod as they pass each other.

 

“Well, he is certainly nothing at all like his father,” says Robb as they sit down.

 

Arya laughs along with Eddara, the second Baratheon child, and the one that is her same age; Bran, Cassana, the third Baratheon child, doesn’t seem to hear or simply don't care at all. Sansa makes a noise of distress, looking around before glaring at her brother.

 

“Don't say that,” she hisses, her eyes catching sight of the Prince as he dances with Lady Margaery Tyrell.

 

“Robb is not wrong.” Joy smiles and links her arm with Sansa's, pulling her up onto her feet and a little bit further down the long table. “I'm sure it's been noticeable enough, what with the blue hair and the low ponytail. A present from Prince Oberyn while they journeyed through Essos, some say.” The mischievous twinkle in her eyes is very reminiscent to that of Uncle Robert; they stop at last, in front of a plate full of lemon cakes , looking as tasty as they did when Sansa first laid eyes on them at the beginning of the feast. “Did you hear about it, Sansa?”

 

“The journey to Essos?”

 

She nods, positive that every single person in the realm had heard of it. Sansa remembers speaking of little else with Jeyne when word had reached Winterfell.

 

Joy helps herself to some lemon cakes, considering the Prince thoughtfully. “Some say the Tyroshi style is not all he picked up during his journey.”

 

“I… I don't understand.”

 

It's been barely a day, and already Sansa feels like people aren't telling her something of apparent importance.

 

Joy blinks, mildly surprised, before shaking her head. “Are the lemon cakes too your liking? Mother had them made especially for you.”

 

She smiles. “Yes, they're truly delicious.”

 

There's a lull in the conversation as they both eat their treats, Sansa takes this opportunity to look her fill of the Crown Prince. Certainly, as far as behavior goes, Prince Aegon is nothing at all like his father; exuberant in his charm, quick to smile, unrepentant and open about his opinions. He does not go about life as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, in fact seemed to do his very best to enjoy life to the fullest. By chance he catches her eye, gives her a dashing smile before turning his focus back on the Lady Margaery, who has convinced him to another dance – Sansa blinks, feels her cheeks bloom with heat rapidly and hastens to look away.

 

“Oh?”

 

Sansa starts, turns to her cousin to find her smiling amusedly at her; a part of her wants to curse, use one of the many foul words Arya is wont to let slip that she’s picked up but _refused_ to even think of it. It would be useful now, to express how she feels for forgetting her entirely too playful cousin has been right beside her the whole time she’d been ogling the Prince.

 

“Would you like me to ask Aegon to dance with you?”

 

“Oh,” she gasps, moves closer to be heard over the lively music as she whispers, “Joy! You musn’t be so familiar with the Crown Prince!”

 

“He said I could!” Joy grins, shrugging, her good humor vanishes quickly. “King Rhaegar came seeking a match between our Houses, preferably between Aegon and I – but we both know it won't happen.”

 

Tentative, she looks towards the dancing couples, easily finding the Lord and Lady Baratheon. “Is it because of Uncle Robert?”

 

It’d been a noticeable occurrence; after leading in the opening dance, Uncle Robert and Aunt Lyanna were expected to share the next one with Queen Elia and King Rhaegar respectively, and they did, though even the lighthearted music could not ease the sudden tension that sprung forth. A second dance had not been imposed on Aunt Lyanna, though Uncle Robert did offer to take Queen Elia for another turn, which she’d declined but only because Prince Oberyn came to claim her company.

 

After that second dance, the ambience had retained some of its tension, until Aunt Lyanna had drawn her lord husband for another dance— _their dance_ , they both insisted every time someone asked, while the tunes of _My Featherbed_ echoed all around—and then another, until his frown melted and he was laughing those booming laughs that were so characteristic to Robert Baratheon. It is where they are now, in the dance floor, once more enjoying a dance, with big smiles—or smirks, it is hard to tell the difference from this far, but both of them are as easy to smile as they are to smirk—on their faces as if nothing at all had once bothered them.

 

Joy hums, bringing the attention back to her. “Some, I suppose. Though, if Mother weren’t in agreement with him, Father would eventually cave.” She chuckles, taps her finger to her chin and shakes her head. “No, it is mostly because I am to inherit Storm’s End one day. Father has declared it, as you know, even if he and Mother have a son, I will be the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. Can’t exactly do that if I am to be a royal bride.”

 

“Oh…”

 

The search for a suitable bride for Prince Aegon has been the talk of the realm as far as Sansa could recall. Margaery Tyrell, Myranda Royce, Wylla Manderly, even his cousin Princess Arianne Martell; they have all been considered and offered to King Rhaegar, but none have received a clear agreement or rejection. And those are only the few she can name off the top of her head, for there are many more – Lord Frey and Lord Greyjoy have also offered their daughters, as have many of the minor houses.

 

But not House Baratheon or House Stark.

 

Until now, she'd thought that offer would never happen, not after what happened at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Sansa has never heard her lord father speak of negotiating a betrothal with the King while looking for a match for her and Arya, nor has she heard of it being suggested by either side. Some wounds run too deep, she knows, and even though the insult has been done to House Baratheon, House Stark had taken the brunt of the fallout by losing its heir to exile.

 

 _Even though King Rhaegar pardoned Uncle Brandon once he ascended to the throne…_ Sansa casts a quick glance towards the head table, where King and Queen sat looking upon their children, or at least Queen Elia looked over them, as King Rhaegar is currently engaged in deep conversation with her lord father. _I doubt anyone will forgive what happened._ Certainly not forget. _The North remembers._

 

“Well, if you wanted a dance with the dashing prince, you'll have to wait for his return,” Joy once more brings her attention back. “He's finally managed to escape the Lady Margaery.”

 

“Ah, I suppose, maybe another time.”

 

If she's truly disappointed, well, no one needs to know.

 

“No matter, I'll introduce you to Ser Loras,” says her cousin, excitement back to the forefront. “He's the best dancer among the young men attending. Cousin, I'm sure you'll enjoy it!”

 

Sansa smiles eagerly, she'd caught a glimpse of Ser Loras, and she'd very much like to share a dance with him.

 

*****

 

The following days are spent going from one activity to the other nonstop. From spending time with Joy, helping her drag both Arya and Eddara to the mummer’s show, to going with the three of them to see the archery contest. Not something Sansa enjoys particularly, but the company makes up for it – at least Joy does, Arya and Eddara are much too loud and much too _wild_. It's all she can do not to snap at them, she grinds her teeth and keeps silent mostly because Joy isn't complaining, also because she will _not_ cause a scene _for Arya_ – especially once Aunt Lyanna joins them.

 

Even if she looks less than thrilled.

 

Eddara asks point blank what has her upset.

 

“Not upset, sweetling,” says Aunt Lyanna, smiling ruefully, “annoyed.”

 

“What did Father do now?”

 

“He wants to bait the King into participating on the melee.” Her aunt sighs, though the affection is clear in her tone as she continues. “I _told_ him to desist, but he's being uncharacteristically stubborn.”

 

“Isn't he always?” Joy smirks at her mother, before turning her attention to contest. “There's always the jousts.”

 

The reminder makes Sansa smile, eagerly for that event of begin. _It ought to be more exciting than the archery contest or the melee_ , she thinks. At least, it'll be to her. Even if the Prince has claimed he won't compete, arguing that his status would prevent anyone from truly giving their all to unhorse him. That he'll have an unfair advantage. _He's not entirely wrong._ More and more, he proved to be the complete opposite of his father.

 

“Robert prefers to beat up his opponents without restrains. Besides, there's his damn rule.”

 

“Ah, yes. I forgot.”

 

“Well I hope Father competes in the melee,” says Eddara, bouncing on her heels. “I want to see him in full armor, and he'll get to use his warhammer! Mother, please! Let him!”

 

“Yes, please let me!” They all turn to look over their shoulders at Uncle Robert, who smiles bright and unconcerned. “I promise to be good and not hurt our guests – too much.”

 

Arya looks as excited at the prospect of watching their uncle compete in the melee as his own daughters; Sansa simply cannot muster the enthusiasm. Aunt Lyanna looks unimpressed, turns around and ignores him, grey eyes watching the archers prepare once more. It's subtle at first, but steadily, the tension picks up. Just as it happened the day they arrived, Sansa feels like she's intruding, the urge to avert her gaze as strong as the one to keep on staring.

 

“Lyanna—”

 

“I will not condone your idiocy,” she says evenly. “Least of all during the celebrations we're holding for our _daughter's nameday_.”

 

“D’you have so little faith in me? You doubt my skill-at-arms?” A few steps, and Uncle Robert is by his lady's side, gently coaxing her to turn around. “Lya…”

 

“It is not your skill-at-arms what I doubt, it's your ability to keep a level head when it comes to—”

 

“Mother.”

 

Joy interrupts, perhaps a tad too sharply, but it seems to accomplish what she wants.

 

“Right,” Aunt Lyanna sighs. “Weren't you going to spend the day with Robb, Bran, and Rickon?”

 

“And Ned.”

 

“Well?”

 

Uncle Robert shrugs. “I wanted to make sure my lady wife wasn't too cross with me.”

 

“I…” Another sigh, but this time there is a clear smile on her face. “I'm not, now go before I change my mind.”

 

With a grin, he bows and turns around, but stops for a moment – a moment he uses to turn back and grab Aunt Lyanna to place a long kiss to her lips. Sansa gasps and quickly covers her eyes, feeling mortified at having being witness to such a private thing; Joy laughs though, while Arya and Eddara make noises of disgust.

 

Sansa uncovers her eyes only once she’s sure Uncle Robert is at a safe distance from her aunt.

 

*****

 

The advantages of having her own fierce protector, is that Sansa does not require a guard to follow her around. Lady is enough. No one would really dare even raise their voices with a horse-sized direwolf stands growling by her side. And despite the many complaints, Uncle Robert had allowed them to run free, even within the castle halls.

 

Now it's one of those times where Sansa is immensely glad for their presence, for no one dared stop her hasty gait as she tries to put as much distance between her and the edges of the woods, not with the menacing form of Lady trailing her steps. _Gods._ But she cannot stop her mind replaying the scene she stumbled upon, cheeks ablaze, she shakes her head vigorously and closes her eyes.

 

And trips, as luck would have it.

 

Lady whines a little and shuffles closer, offering what help she could. Sansa grabs onto her neck and stands, looks around to make sure no one caught her embarrassing display of lack of control. But can anyone blame her? _Oh, don’t think about that. Sansa, do not think about that!_ An impossible task; she needs only to close her eyes to see it – Prince Aegon with the laces of his shirt undone and his hands hiking up the skirts of a serving maid. It had to be, Sansa decides. No lady – _no highborn lady_ would behave so… so… _wanton_.

 

“Lady Sansa!”

 

She yelps and looks over his shoulder to find the very subject of her thoughts running up to her. _No_ , she thinks almost desperately, head shaking, _no, I cannot face him_. Especially not when – _when_.

 

“Lady Sansa—”

 

Lady doesn’t react negatively to the Prince, so that tells Sansa enough to know she’s safe. But this close to a partially clothed man, she can’t _not_ react. _Not partially clothed, he’s his shirt on._ Her mind struggles to compromise on this, even as the Prince finally comes to stand before her. _Winter is just around the corner, he oughtn’t be dressed so lightly. Certainly, he oughtn’t be losing any clothing in the middle of the woods! Or be taking them off anyone either!_ All those rumors about Targaryens having fire in their veins, as false as the rumors of Starks having ice in theirs. This much she knows, this much she’s certain.

 

“You!” Sansa snaps, before Prince Aegon can get another word out. “You are the Crown Prince! You ought to be setting an example of – of proper behavior! Not… you should not be behaving…!”

 

Gods but he has not laced up his shirt, and now Sansa has a very close view of his perfectly shaped and bare chest, a sinful glimpse of his abdomen _that she should not_ —

 

“I should not be behaving?” Prince Aegon prompts gently, and she’s sure, there’s a hint of a smile right there in his eyes.

 

It’s only after her fist collides with his shoulder that she realizes what she’s done, but Sansa is incensed enough not to care. _For now._ “So slatternly!” She pushes him again. “Your father, _the King_ , is trying to make a good match for you, and _you_ – you go about playing sordid little games like a…!”

 

 _A randy bastard_ , supplies her mind, sharply, but her mouth would not budge and utter that despicable word. And, perhaps, he knows; perhaps, he’s read her thoughts. For Prince Aegon advances on her, invading her personal space, and grabbing her wrists when she goes to push him again, holding tight.

 

“Like what?”

 

Lady shifts next to her, suddenly restless, but still unmenacing. _Yet_ , whispers her mind, Sansa frowns fiercely at him. Intellectually she knows, _this is the Crown Prince_ , she ought to back down, apologize – but she doesn't want to. _I don’t have to._

 

“Like Aegon the _Unworthy_.”

 

He freezes for a second, then growls, nostrils flaring in anger as he takes a step closer, grips her wrists harder. He looks like he might shake her, but shakes his head instead. “I am _not_ —”

 

“Will you deny it, _my Prince_?” And _where_ is this daring coming from? Sansa cannot be sure. “Did I not just found you in the process of—”

 

“Having some fun?” He scoffs, smirks sardonically at her. “You should try it some time, my lady, might do you some good.”

 

This time the growl does escape her lips. “How _dare you_ imply I would behave like _that_?!”

 

“How's that?”

 

“A common whore!” Sansa snarls, breaking free of his hold, and pushes him again, satisfied that see him stumble back. “Never, I am _a lady_.”

 

“Aye, you are.” Prince Aegon is no longer looking angry or sarcastic, he stares intently, beholds her with something akin to _wonder_ . “Lord Stark’s most ladylike and beloved daughter, cherished and sought after many men. Sweet and gentle and compliant. _And boring._ ”

 

She bristles, moves before she can think and it's only when he once more catches her wrists that Sansa realizes she'd been about to strike _the Crown Prince again—_

 

 _“Fight me,"_ she snaps, her words very much the command she intends it to be.

 

He arches one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, amusement and _something else_ shining in his violet eyes. “You're so small though.”

 

—and she can't find it in herself to care, _he's so infuriating_ , tries to land a hit nonetheless but he holds her firmly in place. _Too close_ , she thinks. Prince Aegon is tall and because of it Sansa has a direct view of his exposed chest. He's strong and solid and suddenly, _suddenly_. The heat rushes to her face quickly, she takes note of her labored breathing and the little voice in the back of her head that tells her to step away _now_ , the incessant fluttering in her belly and how a part of her very much wants to _step closer_. Would it be alright if she were the ask permission to touch his chiseled chest? _No, it would not._ Oh, but she sorely wants to.

 

Sansa almost reels back, _scandalized_.

 

“ _Sansa_ —” Her breath hitches, certainly, her name had never sounded like _that_ , like – Prince Aegon invades her personal space, making her acutely aware of every single part of her that comes into contact with him. “It must be a Stark trait. What they say of Lady Baratheon holds true of you as well.”

 

“Trait?” _Gods, he's too close._ “What do they say?”

 

“Beautiful and willful…” He lets go of her wrists to cradle her face, closer, closer, _closer_ he moves, crowding her and enticing her and she tilts be head back on instinct, lets her hands grab at his loose shirt at the front, pays little attention to anything else. “The kind of lady that makes men feel _alive_.”

 

One moment they're breathing the same air, _so close to one another_ , his lips a split second away from hers, but the next she's abruptly devoid of heat and Prince and the shamefully pleasant sensations he's been evoking into her. And then she blinks, then she _gasps_ , fear—perhaps delayed—courses through her as she watches Uncle Robert picking up the Prince from where he'd landed, watches him land another blow.

 

“Uncle Robert!”

 

And then Lady pounces.

 

*****

 

The following days are stressful; speculations about what transpired between her and Prince Aegon abounded, as did the _rumors_. Sansa doesn't know which one is the most outrageous – that she would risk being dishonoured in the middle of a open field or that she had been merely fighting off unwanted advances. _I would never!_ Arya doesn't help with her a nagging, demanding details and following her around everywhere. _This is not what I meant by asking for my sister to acquire an interest in what I do._

 

“How can you claim to have done nothing? The Prince couldn't have gotten that blacked eye out of nowhere!” Arya exclaims, crossing her arms, while Bran and Rickon awaited an exciting tale.

 

When the urge to growl comes, she glances at Lady, finds her dear direwolf watching the interaction attentively, and she remembers Aunt Lyanna’s words when she'd been explaining her visceral reactions to Prince Aegon, as he was tended to by the maester.

 

_“You said you felt a connection when you first laid eyes on Lady, that made you choose her… Have you considered that, Sansa? Perhaps it is that connection what made you react so…”_

 

Like a wolf.

 

“Sansa!”

 

“That is _enough_ , Arya. Your sister doesn't need you to bother her about the… _incident_ … with Prince Aegon. If she says nothing happened, believe her.”

 

Her lady mother spares her of reacting negatively; now that she's aware of it, Sansa can actually feel the bond she shares with Lady on a conscious level now, and knows she'll most likely react strongly.

 

“Something did happen, though.” Arya pouts before giving her an speculative glance; then she smiles. “Still, I'm _proud_ , you left his pretty face all black and blue. I don’t think I’ve ever admired you more, Sansa.”

 

_“Arya.”_

 

Mother's warning tone finally affords her some peace and quiet, enough that she lets her mind wander and she does not need that right now. _It wasn't me, little sister, it was Uncle Robert._ Her dear uncle; throwing the Prince off her had been the start, Sansa had then become preoccupied with holding Lady back, but not before she’d scratched his leg; by the time she'd managed, Prince Aegon had a blackened eye and a busted lip and could barely stand by himself.

 

Yet had managed to look as regal and unperturbed as ever.

 

No one knows that, of course, no one outside the necessary people; Uncle Robert had told everything he’d witnessed to Aunt Lyanna, which, _regretfully_ , had been only the last bit of it. _“I’ll not allow another_ **_Targaryen Prince_ ** _to do as he pleases!”_ His thundering voice still echoes loudly in her head, along with King Rhaegar's displeasure at the sight of his injured son – _“Yet I cannot allow you to harm my son, my lord.”_ Queen Elia had remained calm, and made no comments after the Prince spoke to her in hushed tones. And once her parents had arrived, _Gods_ , Sansa feared the worst.

 

Sansa had tried to explain, but words failed her and she felt much too scared, for her uncle and aunt and her parents, _and Lady_ , who very nearly took the brunt of the fall once the King's advisors became involved.

 

_“If you do not want to punish your cousin, my King, then execute the beast.”_

 

Only then had Prince Aegon reacted, only then had he spoken up. Enraged, as he glared his father's advisors into submission. _“You order the execution of the wolf,_ **_Father_ ** _, and I'll make sure the heads of those involved roll along the fields.”_

 

Sansa could've kissed him then, but he'd stormed out of her uncle's private solar.

 

“I still can't believe the King didn't demand we lock up the direwolves,” says Bran, snapping her out of her musings. “After what happened.”

 

“Only because of Prince Aegon,” says Sansa, unthinking.

 

Arya pounces on the chance to ask for more answers then. “So you've spoken with him? I thought he would hate you for humiliating him.”

 

She'd thought so as well. But other than apologizing to her for miscontructing her words, something that still leaves her confused because _how could her words be misconstructed_ , and for making advances on her for it, the Prince has been perfectly polite with her, if a bit too eager to spend time together now.

 

Such attempts have been curtailed by all those around her, at that. _It's because of what King Rhaegar did, his son is forever doomed to pay for the one mistake._ Sansa is both grateful and annoyed by it; Prince Aegon minds not the constant interruptions, simply smiles and tries to engage her in conversation. But she's too flustered to even respond coherently, much too conscious of the ever present guard to speak freely.

 

 _Stressful._ She'd not even managed to enjoy the jousts, one of the activities she'd been looking forward to attending. All the commotion over this, the rumors and the stares and the subtle and not so subtle questions – it's taken its toll, and Sansa had begged off from attending the first few days. _And now it's the last day, and I've enjoyed none of it._ The lists for each day were announced with enough time so the attendees can pick which jousts they'll watch. The first two days had seen the tilts of every young knight enrolled, she'd been told, from the good to the truly pitiful; by the third day, half the competitors remained, and half of those were gone by the fourth day of the jousts. Her brother had advanced marvelously, his skill with the lance superior to that of his opponents; other young knights from good families proved to be better as well.

 

A knock on the doors precedes the arrival of Aunt Lyanna. “Ready to go?”

 

“I am!” Arya exclaims, jumping off the settee and running at their aunt.

 

Bran and Rickon follow while Mother comes to stand by her side. “Are you certain you don't want to go?”

 

Sansa frowns.

 

“Sansa,” Aunt Lyanna walks towards her, kneeling by her side and grabbing her hands. “I _know_ having dozens of people staring and mumbling behind your back is stressful—” Right, of all her family, she would understand what she's feeling the best. “But never forget, you are a Stark of Winterfell. The wolf-blood runs through your veins, same as your sister – same as me. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing you hide away.”

 

Mother strokes her face gently and smiles encouragingly. “Wouldn't you like to see your brother tilt against Ser Loras and Ser Harrold?”

 

“And against the Mystery Knight?”

 

Now _that_ , she does want. Her siblings and cousins have talked non-stop about this Mystery Knight since the moment he made an appearance. No one seems to know much about him, other than, so far, his lance had yet to meet its match. The older generation, she'd been told, had not being happy to begin with – except Uncle Robert, who simply smiles in something akin to satisfaction when asked, and denies all knowledge about the Knight's appearance in the lists.

 

_The Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers._

 

Speculation varied about his identity, about the image painted across his shield, a wolf with a flower crown in its mouth; some pointed fingers at her brother—said it is his way of showing an interest with the Lady Margaery—as he’d not tilted against the Mystery Knight yet, and had been suspiciously out of sight when the Knight _did_ tilt against someone else. And Robb, of course, he found it terribly amused, but had neither confirmed nor denied the rumors. Then there was those who believed the Knight to be Ser Loras, who also had been coincidentally out of sight – rumors gave the same reasons, that the painting in the shield is an unspoken wish for a match between Houses Tyrell and Stark.

 

“Alright,” Sansa says, standing up with a deep breath.

 

By the doors, Arya and Bran and Rickon wait anxiously. “ _Come on_ , I want to be seated by the rail!”

 

The newfound easiness, however, doesn't last. _I am cursed_ , thinks Sansa, barely managing to hold back a whine. Arya runs ahead, excited, Bran follows, as does Eddara and Cassana, and then they place themselves by the rail. Jory goes after them, taking Rickon with him once Mother is convinced that it’s fine to let him go, as well as one of the Baratheon guards, the rest stays behind.

 

Joy smiles amused at them all, as she approaches. “Sansa, I'm glad you came!”

 

“I'm starting to question my decision,” she deadpans.

 

“Well, I hope you stay till the end, because now this day promises to be entertaining.” The smile turns into a smirk, and her cousin leads her to her seat, where Uncle Robert awaits them all with a scowl on his face and little Serena, the youngest Baratheon child, in his arms. “You’ll excuse me, dear cousin, but I must go speak to your brother before the tilts are to begin.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Joy shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “I only mean to tell him that he’ll regret his decision if he chooses to crown _me_ and not you, should he win. I’ll be right back.”

 

Her attention is diverted from watching her cousin’s retreat by Serena’s excited call for her mother and Aunt Lyanna rushing to gather her in her arms, peppering her face with kisses as they all takes their seats. The Lord and Lady Baratheon to one side of the King, while Queen Elia and her children sit by the other, though Sansa dares not look, uncomfortably aware of the stares piercing her back. Her aunt grabs her hand and has her sit next to her, while Father and Mother take the places on her other side.

 

It is then that her aunt smirks at Uncle Robert. “You look upset, my lord. Is something amiss?”

 

Her uncle growls, which prompts Serena to giggle, thinking it all a game. “Another Mystery Knight has appeared in the lists. I’ve half a mind to demand he unmasks himself now.”

 

“And ruin the surprise? Was it not you the one who demanded that the Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers be left alone until he lost or won?”

 

Uncle Robert frowns at his wife. “You enjoy tormenting me too much, _woman_.”

 

“Torment _you_ , my dear lord husband? _Why_ , I would never.”

 

Father clears his throat noisily, giving the pair a reproachful glare, while Sansa looks on, as shocked and embarrassed at these displays as ever. “It’s starting.”

 

Once more, Sansa’s attention is drawn away from the matter at hand. Her Father proceeds to reprimand both his dear friend and his sister, while she watches Ser Loras Tyrell and Ser Harrold Hardyng take their places down in the field. _Oh._ Would if she could be asked by either for her favor, Sansa would’ve given it, though perhaps more enthusiastically to Ser Loras. But since she’d sequestered herself in her rooms once the jousts began – just then, a shiver runs down her spine; immediately, she knows _who_ it is that stares so intently at her.

 

The horses stomp their hooves on the ground, the dust picks up, and the excitement shows in the raise of voices all around. And the tension, the people begin to bang their hands on the rails, among them she even spies her little siblings doing the same – the flag drops, and it begins, almost in slow motion, Sansa watches Ser Loras and Ser Harrold lower their lances, sees them close the distance, it's like the patter of the rain—

 

“YES!”

 

—like a loud clap of thunder, that's how Sansa hears the sound of both young knights clashing. The excited screams that rise then drown the calls for another lance, having broken the first one with the force of the collision. The squires hurry to replace them, and once more, Ser Loras and Ser Harrold swerve their horses around and charge at one another.

 

“Papa!” Serena squirms excitedly out of Aunt Lyanna's arms and into Uncle Robert's, standing on his knees to have a better view. “Papa! Make them go boom again!”

 

As if at her order – they clash again, only this time nothing breaks, and the sound is not as loud. Father mumbles how it was a close call, but over the cheers and Uncle Robert's laughter, Sansa cannot understand the rest of his words. Serena cheers along with the crowd, even if Sansa doubts her little cousin understand much of what happens; the young knights charge again and she deliberates for a second before deciding—

 

_Boom! Crash!_

 

Sansa gasps, one hand clutching at her chest while the other grabbed at her lord father's arm, shaking it excited. “Did you see, did you see?” She'd definitely caught it, the way Ser Harrold nearly fell off his horse, how he once more broke a lance on Ser Loras, and avoided the strike to the helmet that might’ve costed him the tilt. She focuses on The Knight of Flowers, gentle and charming and everything a gallant knight _should be_ , with her enchanting smile and sparkling eyes, watches him grab another lance and then urge his horse into a furious gallop. _Oh, please, please, let him win._ Sansa has nothing against Ser Harrold Hardyng, but her choice for a winner between the two has been set since Ser Loras shared a dance with her at the opening feast.

 

“Harry the Fair,” says Uncle Robert, loud and clear, with a hint of triumph she does not understand. “He's already won.”

 

“What?”

 

For an eternal moment, both young knights seem to be suspended in time—Sansa grabs her father's arm with both hands, shaking it over and over as she bounces in her seat as Serena bounces on her father’s knee—they clash, the sound booming across the field. Ser Harrold's shield flies off to the side, dirty and battered, the crowd explodes in cheers and protests and some shouted insults—

 

Serena laughs, an echo of the man who sired her, clapping her hands. “Yes! Down, down he goes!”

 

—Ser Loras hits the ground with a heavy thud.

 

“Oh no,” Sansa laments, looking up as her lord father when he taps her forearm. “I wanted him to win.”

 

Father smiles gently at her. “He did well, in all. Among the best young knights to reach the final rounds.”

 

“But he’ll not get to be sponsored by House Baratheon now.”

 

Mother smiles indulgently, reaches over to hold her hand. “Sansa, do you believe he needs it?”

  
  
Truly, Ser Loras is among those who need the opportunity the less, coming from one of the most wealthy Houses in all the realm. She understands that, accepts it, but the romantic in her thought it’d be nice if he would remain here, as Sansa is more likely to be allowed to visit Storm’s End than Highgarden. She sighs and shakes her head, turning to watch Ser Harrold helping Ser Loras stand back up. Harry the Fair. The name suits him, Sansa realizes now, very handsome and noble; and even more, the sponsoring would do him good.

 

“I suppose,” she mumbles, watches the young man walk away while their horses were taken to be looked after, and then turns to Uncle Robert. “He’s from a minor House in The Vale, is he not?”

 

“Yes, he—” his sentence is cut short when Serena, among her aunt’s badly concealed chuckles, turns to pat his cheek, though he manages to finish— “is.”

 

“Papa, make them go again!”

 

“Be calm, sweetling,” says Aunt Lyanna. “One of the Mystery Knights will tilt now.”

 

One of her lord grandfather's bannermen, the young Cley Cerwyn, is the first to come out next, allowing his horse to trot a lap around the field; his visor is up so Sansa can see him smile. He stops before the King salutes him by lowering his lance and bowing his head, almost with a flourish, then trots off to take his place. So much fanfare overshadowed the entrance of the Mystery Knight, but once he is noticed, the excitement grows.

 

Serena claps happily. “Ser Mystery Knight!”

 

Sansa wishes she knew more about horse breeds, so she could know if the Mystery Knight has a good mount. It looks powerful, almost gallant with its black coloring, and atop it, the Knight looks as enchanting and regal as any Knights from the legends. _Like Aemon the Dragonknight_ , she thinks guiltily, sparing a glance at her family, yet refusing to glance the Prince’s way.

 

“Does he have chances to win, Father?”

 

He smiles in response. “He looks proficient enough, but we will know for sure soon.”

 

Soon enough seems to be about right. Sansa watches the flag go down, the horses be kicked into a furious gallop; the lances descend, steady even among the jarring of the horses, closer and closer they come – she takes note of all the sounds that quickly have become familiar, prepares for the clap of thunder that'll be the collision and then—

 

“Aw, is that it?”

 

—the collision is as spectacular as the previous tilt, if short-lived and a bit shocking.

 

Cley Cerwyn lies groaning on the ground, the Mystery Knight needing no more than a single pass to unhorse him. The shock ripples through the crowd, no one truly believing that can be it. The Knight takes his horse for a lap around the field—Sansa takes note of something painted across the shield but cannot get a proper look—stopping in front of the King as well.

 

There's none of the fanfare from before, a tap to the helmet it's all he does, before swerving his horse and galloping off.

 

“Papa, is that all?”

 

“Hardly, sweetling, your cousin is up next.”

 

Serena pouts, and plops down onto his lap. “Will he be tumbled off his horse too?”

 

Sansa leans forward, smiling at her youngest cousin. “Don't you think he can win?”

 

“The Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers is very good,” she says with all the solemnity of a child of four.

 

And Serena is not wrong. The Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers sits horse like an imposing warrior, _why_ , suddenly Sansa realizes this is how all the cavalry must look like before they're ordered to charge on the enemy. Imposing and powerful atop their restless horses, gripping their lances tight in their grips – _terrifying_. Even her sweet big brother, sitting on his brown mount, armored and armed, displaying their sigil proudly across his chest, looks like the stuff of nightmares.

 

Even when they charge this time, it's no longer the pitter-patter of rain preluding an errant rumble of thunder. Now, it sounds like the inevitable thunderstorm, furious and unforgiving. The collision seems louder than before, both her brother and the Knight break lance, neither flinches, the horses keep on, it's like they never stop. Another pass, another set of lances destroyed. The crowd cheers loudly, amazed at the display; Sansa simply prays for it to end, unable to retain the wonder from before. _Come on, Robb._ The third pass, they ram their lances against the shields, denting the steel badly – another set is rendered to splinters and ashes. The fourth is the decisive one.

 

Robb falls with a heavy thud to the ground, audible even from afar. Takes some time to stand back up and by then, Sansa realizes she'd jumped to her feet along with her lady mother.

 

Clearly, this tilt had been the most exciting in terms of skill, but her sudden realization, the image of _her brother—_

 

Uncle Robert bounces Serena on his knees, pulling funny faces to ensure her giggles. “He did well.”

 

“He must be proud of his achievement,” says Father.

 

Mother smiles fondly, proud of her first born. “I'm certain he is, my lord.”

 

Aunt Lyanna suddenly straightens up, looking down and around the people. “Where are the children?”

 

Sansa taps her shoulder, points somewhere down to the left. “Over there, Jory and Ser Balon are with them.”

 

Aunt Lyanna frowns, prepares to stand up when the next competitors are announced. Ser Harrold Hardyng against the other Mystery Knight; she curses under her breath and leans closer to Uncle Robert, though whatever it is they discuss is lost under the noise filling the field.

 

“Papa! Mama! It's a wolf with antlers!”

 

Only those in their immediate vicinity hear that. And now that she has a better view of the shield, the image painted in it makes sense – yes, it's clear, an antlered wolf snarling fiercely at the crowd.

 

By then, the young knights have made a pass, missing the mark; the horses swerve around, break into a furious gallop, Ser Harrold hits it's mark, but fails to unhorse his opponent, though fractures his lance in the process. The Mystery Knight rights himself in his saddle, discards the useless lance while a mousy squire hurries to replace it. They go at it again, another close call, for both of them; and one more time where the Mystery Knight nearly falls again. The fifth and sixth times the lances break but neither manages to even make the other flinch.

 

And then comes the seventh time—

 

As if from far away, she hears her aunt ask, “who do you want to win, sweetling?”

 

—both lances hit their mark, but a final twist to the arm and Ser Harrold goes tumbling off his saddle.

 

The crowd goes wild, because this means both Mystery Knights get to face each other.

 

*****

 

There's a brief break from the jousts, in which the young knights who lost go wash and change. Cley Cerwyn sits near her lady mother, while Ser Harrold Hardyng goes take a seat by Lord Elbert Arryn’s side. Ser Loras sits among his family while Robb plops next to her, the newly vacated seat Father gave him.

 

“You and Ser Loras are breaking many hearts by not maintaining the illusion of being one of the Mystery Knights.”

 

Robb grins, shrugs, and makes himself comfortable. “I never said I was one of them.”

 

It's the smug curve of his smile what gives him away. “You _know_ who they are!”

 

He's spared of further interrogation by the announcement of the last joust – knights competing for a sum of gold, and the renown that winning will give them. _Fame, gold and glory._ Trumpets blare, the flag drops and everyone holds their breath.

 

“Well, now we'll get to see who hides behind that visor,” grumbles her uncle.

 

“And if I forbid it?”

 

“ _Seven Hells_ , woman.”

 

The horses are kicked into a gallop. First collision is like an explosion – dust flies everywhere along with the splintered wood of what used to be the lances. Both shields and its pretty pictures, get bent out of shape, but by the approving comments from Father, they will hold for another hit, or two. _The Knight of the Antlered Wolf, and the Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers._ They charge again, lances at the ready, steady and solid – they break again, there's no flinching, barely any pausing as they grab another lance and are barreling down their respective trail.

 

The Gods have taken a step back, suddenly; the stumble is obvious for both young men, for a brief moment their arms go limp. A lull falls over the field as they take their time to turn their horses around, the people's at a loss of how to react – there's a palpable determination coming from both knights, clearly, both want to _win_. They urge their mounts into motion once more, faster and faster they go; a shield is obliterated, a helmet is severely dented, but no one yields, no one falls. On and on they go, several times, several misses, until it happens – a helmet flies, a knight falls off his horse.

 

“No!”

 

Robb jumps to his feet with a worried shout, horrified gasps ripple all around and Sansa makes no sense of why until both her parents, her aunt and uncle, are also jumping to their feet. She follows, she sees, _and understands_. Not his horse – she gasps, shocked.

 

_“JOY!”_

 

Whichever Baratheon screams, Sansa cannot tell, but she does notice Uncle Robert passing Serena into Aunt Lyanna's arms, ready to jump over the rail and go over his daughter, when said daughter halts all movements with a harsh command.

 

“Enough!” She stands up slowly, huffs and waves away Lord Tarth’s attempts to help. “I'm fine, I've had worse.”

 

Not the best confession to make, not with her father on the brink of snapping. But ever her parents’ child, Joy shrugs off her discomfort and faces the approaching knight. _The Knight of the Antlered Wolf, she is._ Suddenly, the painted sigil makes much sense. Her cousin smiles, and slowly, cheers raise above the heavy silence, led by none other than her sisters and little cousins. And that's when Sansa realizes, turns to Robb.

 

He grins sheepishly. “Yes, I knew about Joy. Had to help her some, you see.”

 

“Who is the other one, then?”

 

Their attention is riveted to the King, who stands as the tension picks up again. Would he make a mention of what Aunt Lyanna did nineteen years ago? Gods, but Sansa hopes not.

 

“My lady, if I may ask, why would you participate in an event held in your honor?”

 

Joy does not shy away from the King's piercing stare. “The last few days have been stressful, Your Grace, and I wanted to ease some of it by giving the flower crown to someone very dear to me.”

 

“Not me, I hope,” Uncle Robert chimes in.

 

Joy smirks. “The colors don't suit you, my lord.”

 

The Knight of the Wolf and the Flowers walks closer, just as the crowd begins to whisper excited.

 

“Ser Knight, as my cousin, the Lord Baratheon, requested, I held off asking for your name.” A pause, and King Rhaegar walks a bit closer to the rail, motioning with his hand for a soldier to hurry over. “But as you must now choose a lady among those present to crown as Queen of Love and Beauty, it is for the best that you do so by shedding your mask.”

 

The soldier presents the Knight with a wreath of colorful flowers and waits for him to take it.

 

“If you crown me, I will punch you.”

 

The silence permits them all to hear Joy's words, but the surprise at them is nothing, _absolutely nothing_ , compared to the shock that freezes them all in place when the last helmet is removed.

 

“Oh, godsdamned, _not this again_.”

 

“Fear not, my lady, I've no desire to be punched by another Baratheon.” The smirk tugging at his lips vanishes. Prince Aegon looks up at his father, defiant, as he takes the crown in one hand and the reins of his horse in the other. The King does not look at all pleased. A quick glance is spared in her uncle’s direction, before the Prince is swinging up onto the saddle, kicks the horse into a canter, stop right in her line of sight. “I've asked, so I know I'm not insulting anyone. I hope.”

 

Robb urges her closer to the rail, is quick to pacify Father as she moves as if by pulled by a foreign force.

 

“You're not promised to anyone, Lady Sansa, and neither am I,” he keeps talking. “I swear it, I mean no offense. But who else is worthy of such an honor?”

 

“My cousin, perhaps?” At last, her voice comes to her. “My aunt, my lady mother? _Her Grace?_ ”

 

Prince Aegon grins. “Mother understands. She knew what I planned to do.”

 

We'll, that's a surprise.

 

“Beautiful and willful…” His voice seems to raise above the murmurs, sets her cheeks ablaze. “Certainly, you know, I've been painfully obvious since… the incident. _Lady Sansa_ , I've been thoroughly charmed by you, no one else could compare in my eyes—”

 

“ _My Prince_ , you should watch that silver tongue of yours.”

 

His smirk is unrepentant. “I'll not force you, but if you would accept this…” A bright grin, one that reaches his violet eyes, overtakes his expression as she leans forward to accept the wreath of flowers. He places them on her head. “You honor me, my lady.”

 

“I thought it is the other way around?”

 

Truly, it's as though his grin became a permanent fixture in his face.

 

“I must ask,” Father's voice is as solemn as ever, yet carries a certain edge as he comes to stand by her side. “What it is you wish to accomplish with this.”

 

“Lord Stark, with your permission, I'd like to court your daughter.”

 

The crowd gasps and Sansa is painfully reminded of their presence. _Court me?_ She looks at the displeased frown on the King's face.

 

“Is His Grace in agreement?”

 

“My Father cannot object, for it is a good match,” his smile turns sharp as a knife. “He wishes for my happiness as well, and this would make me happy.”

 

King Rhaegar takes a deep breath, but nods; though, it seems the action pains him. “I would not oppose.”

 

Father places a hand over her shoulder, turning a soft gaze on her. “If you are agreeable, Sansa.”

 

 _Is she?_ Sansa does not know. But Prince Aegon said he would court her, and she is fairly attracted to him, she won't deny. At the very least, she'd like to try. She knows, hardly any match is made out of love, or even attraction; her own parents, were strangers the day the wed, but have grown to love one another dearly. _I'd really like to try._

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

Really, his blinding grins might just be enough to convince her.


	5. day five, take one - aegon/sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day Five - Salty Teens AU_
> 
>  
> 
> A disgraced King with no crown, no throne, no kingdom. This is not how Sansa had once envisioned her life.

The silk gives ridiculously easy, her corset suffers the same fate, breasts bouncing slightly as they're released from its confines; Sansa gasps, growls in annoyance, her hand trails up his back to tangle in his hair, short and and bluish, as he always preferred, and  _ pulls _ . His hiss fills her with satisfaction, it may or may not send heat spiraling throughout her whole body – she does it again; not to be outdone, her other hand grabs the collar of his tunic, tugs once, twice, a third time and the cotton gives. Yet another sound that gives her satisfaction.

 

Aegon growls, detaches his lips from her neck to glance at her handiwork; retaliates by ripping the skirts of her gown off. “I liked that shirt.”

 

“I liked that gown,” she snaps back, pulling forcefully at the laces of his breeches, these drop to hang low on his hips.

 

_ Her husband. _ He picks her up by the thighs, chases her lips, nipping and sucking until she relents and kisses him. Long and bruising, tugging his full lips between her teeth, is sorely tempted to bite until she draws blood as carries to the bed, just to see how he'd react.  _ He'd return the favor. _ Her  _ darling _ husband, they've been promised since she can remember; a Stark lady and a Targaryen prince, this match had never been anything more than an attempt to make amends for the insult that befell House Stark during the Tourney of Harrenhal, but had been dubbed the fulfillment of  _ The Pact of Ice and Fire _ . Her betrothed, Aegon Targaryen, the Crown Prince; now her husband, Aegon VI Targaryen, the Crownless King, the Pretender.

 

The Targaryen Prince who dragged the realm into a bloody war when he turned his back on his own father – for reasons unknown. Sansa was told their betrothal would hold because King Rhaegar needed to be removed from the Iron Throne, because Prince Aegon would be a better ruler – benevolent, just, strong-willed  _ and sane _ – unlike his predecessors. They'd been wedded and bedded on her sixteenth nameday; Sansa gained the promise of a golden crown and seven kingdoms, and Aegon gained the alliance of The North and the Stormlands and most of The Vale and the Riverlands. A promise that seems to be doomed to remain unfulfilled now that King Rhaegar declared his first son to be in open rebellion, made his second son, Prince Joffrey, his heir, and sent his army to march on Dorne.

 

She lands on the bed unceremoniously, has no time to protest or even frown, Aegon pulls down his breeches – and  _ Gods _ , but he's beautiful, his body, so perfectly sculpted, never fails to evoke the most pleasant yet embarrassing sensations in her. Sansa gasps, rubs her thighs together as she watches him get rid of the last piece of clothing; licks her lips, which makes him let out a rumbling groan, makes him hasten to climb onto the bed. Whimpers when her shift is taken off and then her smallclothes – her moan is muffled into the smooth curve of his neck once he nudges her thighs apart and settles between them. And slowly,  _ slowly _ , he sinks into her; there's no need for the acts he calls foreplay, Aegon doesn't use his fingers and mouth on her to make her wet and she doesn't have to stroke his cock to make it erect.

 

“Oh…”

 

The moan tumbles past their lips with the first thrust, shallow and quick, to measure her readiness. Aegon kisses her again, long and hard, unhurried, she reciprocates, sliding her hands under his strong arms, clutching at his back as his hips snap over and over against hers, picking up a fast rhythm. He guides her legs to wrap around his waist, rests his weight on his tight elbow to free his left hand. Kiss breaks with a gasp on her part, a groan from him; his mouth latches on her breasts, laving them with attention and she's so,  _ so close _ . Her name falls from his lips,as moans and groans, so many renditions of it uttered in his deep voice – allowing herself to do the same always seems like a fair trade.

 

_ “Sansa…” _

 

No denying it; she spends her days vacillating between feeling an overwhelming fondness for her husband and disliking him greatly. Moody and rash and not at all the gentle man she'd believed him to be, Aegon frustrates her to the point of feeling the urge to smack him. Her nights though… Her  _ darling _ husband. Her disgraced King; they've been apart for nearly a moon, will be longer once he takes his armies to Dorne, so this urgency, this desperation, she understands.

 

“Try not to die,” she whispers at him, after he's spilled his seed in her womb, after they're done and he lays breathing hard atop her, both tired and sweaty. “You promised me you'd make me Queen.”

 

Better this way, Sansa is not ready for more than this grudging passion they share in their bed. Aegon chuckles, an edge to it, and bites the skin of her collarbone hard enough to make it sting.

 

“And I intend to keep that promise.” He raises up onto his elbows, smirks at her somewhat sardonically. “Don't weep for me, my Queen, for I shall not fall. I've the best strategists and commanders on my side.”

 

_ My husband, the dragon whose fire burns hotter than the sun’s. _

 

His grin is contagious, and when she thinks she'll run the risk of… Sansa scoffs, rolls him onto his back and watches him get comfortable as she straddles him. She's not fond of riding, at least, not of the conventional kind, but  _ this _ – is incredibly satisfied to feel him grow hard underneath her – this, she enjoys.

 

Tremendously.


	6. day seven, take one - arthur/elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day Seven - Free Day_
> 
>  
> 
> She deserves more than a rickety cot and threadbare blankets, more than a tent in the middle of the woods in a moment of madness. It's been years - and she's still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

 

The silence, the absence of people, it almost makes it seem like they're the only people left in the world. Even in broad daylight. Right here, inside his tiny tent, standing next to his cot, close,  close , because there isn't much room to move; lucky they can even stand fully.

 

This is madness.

 

The Princess –  Elia. Her name is Elia. She'd requested, voice soft as they had stood overlooking the horizon, both yearning to see, over the raising mountains, the home they once left behind. She'd asked for there to be no titles between them,  like it used to , when it was just the two of them – young and hopeful and foolish  and in love . And he had agreed, thinking nothing of it, took her hand in a moment of daring, thought that would be  it .

 

Until her soft lips brushed against his own, a soft pressure be might have imagined had his hands not  betrayed him . Had he not let the instilled familiarity of this action take over his response and  kissed her back . Long and hard and bordering on desperate, imprinting this one moment into his very soul; the feel of her lips and her hands and how she fits so fucking perfectly against him. Let himself go, until reality sinks, slowly, and he struggled to back away.

 

But Elia wouldn't let him, grabbed his hand and began to retrace their steps back to camp, stopping by the only to ask where his tent was.  You shouldn't ask , he'd thought,  you shouldn't come .

 

Now here they stand, his feeble protests coming to a swift and bloody end once her gentle fingers undo the clasp of his white cloak, letting it fall soundlessly to the ground. He snaps into action when her hands move to the leather straps holding his breastplate, grabs her wrists and taking a conscious step back and breathing hard as if he's trained for hours.

 

“Princess—”

 

“Elia.”

 

“Elia.” Arthur swallows, tries to gather his scattered wits, because none of this makes sense, not – they had both said their vows, kept them just  fine . Except… except not really. Still, he must try to be the voice of reason, as she had been once, when her betrothal had first being announced. “We can't.”

 

Elia considers his words, looks upon him fondly, her dark gaze piercing his defenses. “Shall I go, then?”

 

“No.” Takes a step closer, and another. “But this –  we shouldn't .”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Elia.”

 

She grabs his tunic, looks at him fiercely. “Why is that?” There's an edge to her tone, unyielding. “Why should we be denied—”

 

The reasons, those are many; his vows and hers, her husband and babes.  Her husband – Arthur draws her into another kiss, one he won't regret. His dearest friend, it is a sad realization, what's become of it,  their friendship . The years had eroded most of the wonder of –  don't think, you don't need to think .

 

The pressure around his ribs eases, his breastplate hits the damp ground with a thud, gourget and gauntlets following quickly. Elia meets his gaze steadily, not a sliver of hesitation to it, or her actions. Unhurried, unrepentant, unafraid. And, in the back of his mind, he whispers, reverently –  Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken . His tunic goes, and he stands before her, chest bare and blood humming, so desperately  longing ; her fingers are deft in unlacing his breeches, but then she stops, steps back, and begins working on the laces of her gown.

 

Wants to stop her, tell her he should – let him undress her. It's been  years , he wants to revel in the motions that once came so naturally for him. Revel in the feeling of newly exposed skin,  let me do what I used to do best , if this is to be their only time now, let them enjoy it fully. Her gown falls, she wears no shift under it, and why would she whilst they live the longest summer of their lives? There's truly no need beyond her smallclothes, and now, Arthur questions even the utility of such a flimsy-looking piece of lace.

 

“You… are a vision.”

 

“After two babes? You are too kind.”

 

It's been years. It shows in the hesitation that still makes them falter, Elia pauses briefly before reaching for his breeches, but he grabs her hands and stops her.  It's been years. She deserves this to happen in a large featherbed covered in silky sheets, not in a flimsy cot in the middle of the Kingswood, in the middle of a hunt organized for her good-father’s,  the King's , nameday . Deserves the crown she was promised – deserved the happiness that was expected.  It's been years – yet she remains to be the loveliest woman he's ever seen.

 

“The Gods will strike me down,” he says, kissing her hands and finally,  finally , draws he closer to the cot; he sits, pulls her onto his lap.

 

Elia kisses him softly, fingers wandering over his chest and abdomen. “The Gods don't care about our affairs.”

 

“I'll lose my head for this.” Excuses fall from his lips, one after the other, yet his hands make quick work of her smallclothes, until she's bare and trembling and straddling his lap. “The King—”

 

“I won't allow it.” Her voice is naught but a whisper, leans closer to kiss him softly, once before tugging his bottom lip between her teeth; she repeats, “I won't allow it.”

 

Arthur groans, feels his threadbare control snap. Tangling his hand in her short hair, he pulls her roughly into a kiss, desperate and long, nipping at her plump lips until those are red. His other hand wanders over her chest, paying attention to each tit equally before he breaks the kiss and dives to suckle on nipples; gentle tugs and nips, languorous licks drawing a circle over the tip, just as he remembers she likes it. And then switches sides. Elia gasps, squirms deliciously atop him, putting just the right amount of pressure to his cock through the fabric of his breeches; she reacts just as he remembers – everything,  everything is nearly the same . Hand strokes down her side, the other hastens to catch up – grabs her waist firmly and encourages to roll her hips faster. Arthur hisses, the sting of his scalp bringing more pleasure than pain when he knows it’s  her , the losing of control what makes her responses become rougher and  seven hells but he loves it.

 

“I need—” Her sweet voice breaks, a moans tumbling past her lips, low and raw sets his blood on fucking fire.  “Arthur…”

 

He yearns to lie back, cramped as it is, on the cot, yearns to brace his feet in the ground and thrust up to meet her rocking hips.  It's been years. Arthur knows he won't last long, not now, so he slides his thumb over her hip until he reaches the nub at the top of her cunt, starts rubbing circles over it and watches her arch her back, come apart in his arms. Bronzed skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, Elia shakes and slumps forward, breathing hard against his neck. 

 

And then she releases his cock from the confines of his breeches.

 

“Fuck…”

 

There's this look in her eyes – pupils blown wide –  predatory , the same look she would get when they were younger and this happened often enough. The muscles of her thighs flex when she shifts, lowers herself on him and –  oh , she feels wonderful. Instinctively, his hands tighten their grip on her hips as she rocks, rocks,  rocks over him, cunt fluttering and squeezing him until he's groaning against the crook of her neck, trying to hold back. Elia wraps her arms around his shoulders, whispers soft encouragements in between gasps; he can't – Arthur can't hold back anymore. Swiftly, he rolls them onto the cot, ignoring the loud creaking, and pounds into her with reckless abandon, a hand on her thigh while the other works as support for her head.

 

What feels like an eternity and nothing at all, he spills with a strangled cry, very nearly collapses on her, but Arthur manages to stay on his elbows. The light touch of her fingers brushing a lock of hair off his face brings him focus; Elia smiles at him, lovingly, it makes him yearns to speak the words that might either free them or kill them.

 

Let's go away…

 

He kisses her instead, then says, “We can't stay here much longer.”

 

“I know, but a little more… let's enjoy this for a little while…”

 

He won't think about the consequences of what they've done, now, his Princess wants to enjoy this moment, and they will.

 

“Aye, let's enjoy this…”


	7. day one, take two - rhaegar/cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Cersei gets everything she ever wanted, right?????
> 
> (btw this is a small ficlet taken from a bigger story :p)

Back straight, ankles crossed and hands folded on her lap, Cersei awaits the maester’s confirmation of what she already knows, calm and collected, even though she feels like she can't stop shaking inside. Her hands itch to move over her belly, any other lady would do just that, would show the trepidation and fear,  _ but I am not like any other lady, I am the queen. _

 

The old maester comes to her side then, smiles, and says, “congratulations, Your Grace, you are with child.”

 

*****

 

Cersei remembers the day Father came to her with the greatest gift she could ever ask of him.  _ “You'll marry the prince,” _ he'd said.  _ “You'll be Rhaegar’s queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” _ she'd heard. Joy had filled her chest, her smile, her maids would later say, was beatific, not even Jaime’s less than enthusiastic reaction would damper her satisfaction. The addictive feeling that now,  _ now, _ she will get anything she wants; empowering and all-encompassing, it'd made her bold that night and she'd snuck into Jaime’s chamber.

 

He'd been enthusiastic then, if not at all thrilled that her head was miles away, on her sweet prince and the promise of the perfect life she always dreamed of.

 

The official announcement was made shortly after, at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Father had hoped the King himself would make it, or so he'd said, but Cersei thought it better that Prince Rhaegar be the one to proclaim to his subjects who would be his wife.  _ Their future queen. _ He'd looked so regal as he'd stood that first night of the Tourney, at the opening feast, addressing the gathered lords and ladies, taking her hand and presenting her as his betrothed. Oh, but it was all she could do to smile shyly, affect anything less than the absolute triumph that had coursed through her very being then.

 

_ And when he placed the wreath of winter roses on my head… _

 

“My sweet Cersei,” his voice carries none of the devotion she'd once heard (dreamt, imagined, she can hardly tell the difference now), none of the love. She wonders if her surprise will bring it back, the tender love they had shared at the beginning of their marriage. “You look well, better than you have in weeks.” He grabs her hands to kiss them, and then kisses her cheek. “It gladdens my heart to see it.”

 

“I have news, my king,” she tells him, leading him to sit with her by the hearth in her chambers. “Happy news.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

Her heart thunders in her chest, but her face betrays nothing, she dearly hopes. “Rhaegar,” the name rolls off so easily from her tongue; with a smile, she moves his hands to place them over her belly. “I am with child.”

 

His eyes brighten, sharp as they focus where his hands rest, he shifts closer, and something that could be called a smile stretches his lips. “Truly? It's taken root?”

 

He means nothing by it, Cersei's sure, his words not an accusation, but she feels it keenly nonetheless. But after nearly two years of trying for a child, after countless miscarriages, after the whispers that followed, insidious and  _ wrong, they were all wrong, it was never me the problem, _ she cannot help it.  _ It was the rotten maester. _ Cersei had ordered the old man to be removed from the castle (had ordered he be put to death), and once another maester took to her care, she got with child easily, cementing her belief.  _ It was never me. _

 

“It has, over three moons already,” she says, with a smile that widens when he cradles her face to kiss her brow, keeps his lips there and Cersei’s heart soars. “I did not mean to hide it from you, but I hoped to be certain before—”

 

He silences with a featherlight kiss on the lips. “This brings me so much joy, my queen.”

 

She preens at his words, soft but carrying an underlying emotion, one she basks in. As he moves back, she aims to prolong their contact, once more bringing his hands to her growing belly. “A son, we’ll have a son, I know it.”

 

Her king seems almost amused at her earnestness, but he nods. “A son.” His smile dims, only a fraction, and that worries her, his solemnity now, because no,  _ no, this should be a moment to rejoice. _ “Or a daughter. It matters not, we’ll have two more after,” his captivating gaze fixes on her again, his smile almost reaching his eyes now as he strokes her belly. “A daughter or a son, I shall be happy regardless. I am happy.”

 

“I’ll give you many children,” she asserts, emboldened. “As many as you would like.”

 

Plenty of little silver-haired and violet-eyed babes, perfect  _ and theirs. _ Sons to rule over the realm, daughters to be the envy of many. Cersei needs only close her eyes, and she can already envision it.

 

“Three,” comes the soft reply, yet firm, and impassioned. “The dragon has three heads, and only three.” The intensity of his gaze is something she hadn't experienced before, it thrills her, how he beholds her, almost reverently. “This calls for a celebration, a grand celebration,” he sounds eager and excited, his eyes won't stop shining for this. “The realm will finally have its heir.”

 

Cersei wishes he would pull her into his arms and kiss her passionately, but knows her king isn't the kind to be carried off like that.  _ Jaime might’ve… _

 

“I’ve news of my own, my queen, though I fear they pale in comparison to yours.”

 

She'll take his smile and keep it close to her heart, nonetheless, rare as they are.

 

“Happy news?”

 

She’d rather not hear about problems now, complaints and petty squabbles between lords should not have place in here, she mustn't let it taint this perfect moment.

 

“Happy, yes, yet not as happy as yours,” he makes to stand, Cersei feels herself begin to frown before she hastens to smooth out her expression as Rhaegar looks up into her eyes; he stops and settles closer to her side. “It seems my cousin will finally wed Lady Lyanna Stark and we have been invited.”

 

_ His cousin. _ Cersei smiles at him, when he awaits for a reaction perhaps. Robert Baratheon, clearly; she’d heard little of him, only what Father would mention whenever he would speak of Lord Baratheon. As boisterous as his father, he’d told her once, just as rash.  _ Nothing at all like my king, _ she thinks now, remembering the few times she's met the man’s father. However, Rhaegar seldom spoke of him, not to her anyway, which surprises her that he would even bring him up at all. Then again, lately, he seldom speaks of anything.  _ But that will change now, _ her hands come to rest over his on the swell of her belly. The past miscarriages have strained their relationship a little, but now, now everything will be fine.  _ Now he'll confide in me, his wife. _

 

“That is wonderful.”

 

“I’ll say, it’s been long overdue.”

 

Not exactly what Cersei  _ would _ say. How she’d heard it, Lyanna Stark was barely a girl of three-and-ten when she’d been shipped off to Storm’s End to be fostered and serve as Lady Baratheon’s companion.  _ Much too young, _ though perhaps not for Rhaegar, whose own parents wed and conceived him at the age of twelve. Yet their own wedding hadn’t happened until she was seventeen, so his words…

 

“Lord Baratheon promises it’ll be a grand event.”

 

_ Not as grand as our wedding, _ she thinks,  _ or as the celebration of our unborn child. _ “When will we be leaving?”

 

“In a moon’s turn.” He says, frowning in concern. “Will you be well to travel? It’s not a long journey, a fortnight, mayhaps more if we take a large retinue, but I doubt it.”

 

“The maester says everything is as it should be with the pregnancy, and I feel better than ever,” better and so, so— “I’m sure I can make such a short journey.”

 

“Then I'll go ensure preparations begin immediately, but I shall be back, Cersei, to spend the day with you and our child.”

  
With a last kiss to her temples, Rhaegar leaves her to arrange their departure. Again, she cradles her belly.  _ A moon’s turn, _ her babe will have grown bigger then, stronger,  _ perfect. _ All is not yet lost, with the man responsible for her past misfortune dead and casted into the sea, her life is once more on the path of her perfect dream.  _ I'll not let anyone try to take this away from me again. _


	8. day two, take two - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [prequel to day four, take one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028799/chapters/34962800)
> 
> in which Lyanna is reckless af, and faces the consequences for it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, she's heard some say, but no one's ever mentioned the cost of acting on that desperation.

 

_ I'm only four-and-ten, _ she thinks, hands shaking as Lyanna tightens her grip on her father's arm,  _ I am a child, only a child, I can't be wed yet. _ But those thoughts bring forth Father's recriminations that she certainly did not think herself to be a child when she decided to slip away in the middle of the night and try to disappear in the Wolfswood, live her life as a Wildling to avoid the match he'd made for her. Lyanna had so wanted to snap at him, but the thunderous expression on his face made her pause, realize she was speaking to  _ Lord Stark, _ and that he was well beyond furious with her stunt, so she'd bitten her tongue, though her face said it all.  _ I deserve to have a choice as much as my brothers. _

 

A misconception, because Brandon had as much of a choice in his bride-to-be as she did in her soon-to-be husband. Ned and Benjen are likely to be the same, if Father cares to make matches for them.  _ But Brandon likes the Lady Catelyn, he's spent time with her, courted her, I've only laid eyes on Robert Baratheon once. _ There had been no courting, she knows little of her betrothed and what she does, Lyanna doesn't like. A part of her understands, had she not acted rashly, she would've had a long betrothal, time to get to know the man, but she refuses to yield on this, refuses to admit she's in the wrong.

 

_ “What of his bastard?” _ Lyanna had even brought that out in the open, hoping to gain the upper hand.  _ “What if there's more of them?” _

 

But Father had not been surprised by that, as she'd thought he would be.  _ “Should I judge Brandon for the bastard he has as well, should Lord Tully, Lady Catelyn, since you think it's such an unforgivable sin?” _

 

His quick dismissal had hurt, the revelation of Brandon having a bastard as well had been shocking, but it wasn't exactly unexpected. She's well aware fathering bastards is among the most common if less desirable faults of men, but so long as they do not favor then over their trueborn children, they could have them by the dozen, it seems to her. All her other grievances about Robert Baratheon die on the tip of her tongue after that.

 

A push is all she needs to snap out of her morose thoughts, or tries, as a simple look of what awaits her by the heart tree makes the panic and desperation settle once more.

 

“It's time, Lyanna.”

 

If she were to apologize for running, trying to escape this, would Father forgive her and stop this madness?  _ Almost a woman grown, _ she'd said, to justify her actions, a woman grown so she should be allowed to make her own decisions. Yet  _ now _ more than ever she feels like the child she knows she is.  _ I'm only fourteen, I cannot be wed yet.  _ If she apologizes and promises to be good and try to get to know the man Father chose for her, would he stop this?

 

The answer is no. Father will not change his mind on this anymore than she. It's  _ no _ because, Lyanna is honest enough to admit, given the chance, she would run away again at the first opportunity.  _ I don't want to be a Baratheon, _ her steps are slow and measured, the grip on her arm prevents her from stopping, not that Lyanna would. Wild and rebellious, yes, but she's not as foolish as to defy her lord father in front of his bannermen and other lords gathered to witness the union of House Stark and House Baratheon. She's not as weak as to cry either.

 

Catching sight of her brothers, she remembers their words of comfort and encouragement. How Brandon had ruffled her hair and told her to make the best of it,  _ you and I are bound by duty, little sister, more than Ben and Ned, so we must make the best of it. _ He understands so little of her situation, though, no one would ever force him into a despised mold, endure unwanted advances. Likewise, Ned had tried to assuage her worries by pointing out all the good qualities he knows his friend to have, but she'd refuted him pointing out all his irredeemable flaws, and he'd said no more. Benjen had tried, too, if only by saying he was willing to ride to Storm's End with her, keep her company, if Father allowed it.

 

Father wouldn't allow it.

 

“Who comes?“ Robert's voice is overly loud, more so than usual. “Who comes before the Old Gods?”

 

*****

 

It all passes as if in a haze, the ceremony and most of the feast.

 

Lyanna eats little, enjoys little, and drinks perhaps too much. She spends most of her time sitting next to Robert when he's not off talking to their guests or even her brothers and father, when he's not joking with Ned and another man from The Vale. Lyanna blinks and watches him and still can't believe she's had to shed her name, can't believe she's been cloaked with a crowned stag, that soon she'll be leaving her home behind. Can't believe what will be happening soon enough,  _ I'm only four-and-ten. _

 

Her hand reaches for another cupful of wine, but it's snatched from her before it touches her lips.

 

“Ease on the drinking, little sister,” Brandon smiles at her, chuckles at her frown. “You'll not want to pass out now.”

 

“I do,” she says morosely, taking a bit of satisfaction at his wince. “Are you sure I can't slip away now? If I must— can't I just skip the bedding?”

 

Brandon sighs, but shakes his head. “I've spoken with Robert,” he says instead, “told him that I'm won't mind beating him up if he hurts you, that I won't allow him to break your heart.”

 

Lyanna blinks, wishes to tell her brother it's not so much the breaking of her heart what she fears, it's the breaking of—  _ of something else,  _ but the wine's made her mind buzz by now and she can't articulate what that is.

 

“I was clear, I also told him to skip the bedding,” her brother ruffles her hair with a little smile. “I'll provide a distraction if it's necessary. It might take a while, so you should dance with him.”

 

Her eyes move across the hall, finds Robert with Ned, solemn in deep conversation, yet he looks up then, and their eyes meet for a moment. Lyanna doesn't know what he sees in her face to make him frown.

 

“I'm sure Ned is having much the same talk with him, I'm sure Benjen tried,” he chuckles and that makes her smile. “It'll be fine, Lya.”

 

She hopes her smile is genuine enough to convey her gratitude.

 

Suddenly, Robert stands by her side, with a grin and a request to dance she has no time to deny. A request Brandon encourages by urging her on. The fast paced song with its constant twirling has her seeing the room spin around, makes her dizzy.  _ It's the wine,  _ she thinks, stumbling on the next step and colliding with Robert's solid frame, and finds him staring intently at her when she looks up. It sinks, then, what they all expect to happen now, and the blood rushes to her ears, pounding loud and drowning out all other noise. Her heart beats erratically and she feels like fainting, something bubbles up from deep in her chest but it gets stuck in her throat when Robert grins, and bends to pick her up with one arm.

 

“It’ll be fine,” he says, softly against her cheek but Lyanna can’t stop shaking. “I promise, Lyanna.”

 

His words cut through the thundering noise filling the Great Hall, and she wants to tell him  _ no, _ it won’t be fine unless she is allowed to make her own choices. Unless, unless,  _ unless— _ And then Robert’s whisking her away, so swiftly she’s barely any time to understand what he is doing, and the  _ gratitude  _ that sweeps over her is a first. Something that lasts as long as it takes them to reach the chamber they’ll be sharing for the night all the way to the Guest House. Then the shaking begins anew and the resentment comes back with a vengeance.

 

Robert only needs the one hand to bar the doors, and after, he crosses the distance to the bed quickly and drops her on it, before turning around and tugging off his doublet without a word.

 

_ I’ll not be cowed, _ she thinks, takes a fortifying breath and slides over the furs until her feet touch the floor completely.  _ I can be brave. _ She knew this would happen, had been trying to prepare for it, which is why she decided to drink more wine that she could probably handle.  _ I can be brave, I will be brave. _ Brave and fierce as a wolf, not matter the cloak draped around her now. Lyanna nods resolutely and with a bit of difficulty, begins untying the laces of her wedding gown.

 

It’s harder than she expected, what with those being in the back.  _ Maybe this is why there’s even a bedding ceremony… _

 

“Allow me,” comes his whisper, though Robert doesn't wait for her consent, and she tries not to think much about that. “You looked about ready to tear it off.”

 

“You'd like that,” she replies gruffly, without much thought.

 

Robert chuckles as his fingers untie the laces deftly. “I suppose you aren't wrong, but I find that I like the way this gown looks on you much more.”

 

The bodice comes loose, and with another fortifying breath, Lyanna lets it drop to her feet.  _ I will be brave, _ she will go through this night and all the others to come and—

 

“Right then,” Robert exclaims, startling her, then picks her up and drops her on the bed again. “No use delaying the inevitable.”

 

Lyanna feels herself freeze completely, staring wide-eyed as Robert,  _ her lord husband, _ climbs onto the bed and moves closer. She lies down when he nears, tries not to panic or lash out when he hovers above her, when he pulls the furs down along with the sheets, painfully aware of the shame she would cause her family if she—

 

“Good night, Lyanna.”

 

“What?” Lyanna blinks, shocked, watches him lie down next to her and pull sheets and furs over them both. “Good night? But—”

 

Robert closes his eyes, folds his arms under his head, and nods. “Yes, sleep well, my lady.”

 

Mind reeling in confusion, she simply mumbles her good nights and turns her back on him.

 

*****

 

“Everyone expects us to…” Lyanna sighs and grips her pillow harder. The fire had dimmed and the chamber was bathed in a soft orange glow, it's been like that for a while, yet she can't close her eyes and rest. Feeling a bit silly for speaking to a sleeping man, she turns around— and yelps. “You—!”

 

“You're right, everyone expects us do our duty,” Robert spares a glance at her, before turning his eyes towards the canopy of the bed. “Don't worry, I'll think of something.”

 

“I don't understand,” she mumbles, pulling the covers tight around her. Is he rejecting her? Should she be offended? Or relieved? “Do you not want to?”

 

He frowns and turns to lie on his side, facing her, he tucks his right arm under the pillow while his left rest on the furs between them. He opens his mouth, but no words comes out for a while, and then, “I'm no paragon of virtue, my lady, but I won't bed a girl of four-and-ten.”

 

“Oh…”

 

That is reassuring.

 

“I'd like to get to know you, personally,” he looks sheepish as he says this. “Not just by what your brothers tell me.”

 

“What have they told you?”

 

“That you're not like any other lady I've met before.”

 

She huffs. “I don't know what kind is that.”

 

“Ned knows, and he knows you, so he must be right,” Robert says, shrugging. “I've been told you don't like me, too.”

 

“Ned?“ Lyanna can't believe that, Ned is the least likely to say something like that, thinking it not his right. “Ned wouldn't.”

 

“Ned wouldn't,” he agrees, “but Brandon did.”

 

There's a moment where silence prolongs, Lyanna holds his gaze unflinchingly, wondering what goes through his head.

 

“I do wonder why,” he says at last, “since you don't know me at all.”

 

_ I know you have a bastard daughter, _ she wants to say, but doesn't. “I've been told you love me, and I do wonder why, since you don't know me at all.”

 

His explosive laughter is not what she expects from him now. “Fair. Still, this makes me want to know you even more.” He shifts closer, look expectant. “Tell me what makes you passionate.”

 

Lyanna knows, she can be difficult and not answer, turn her back on him again, pretend to go to sleep, but if this is the man she’s bound to for the rest of her life, she might as well try. They have, after all, had a good beginning, what with him not forcing anything on her.  _ Yet, _ she thinks, wary,  _ he’s not tried anything yet. _ Perhaps Ned is right and Robert is a good man, if just an unfaithful one?

 

“Riding,” she says, “I love riding. Free and for hours on end, I am the happiest atop a horse and racing through the Wolfswood. I’m the best rider in Winterfell and—”

 

“The whole North as well?”

 

She does not find his interruption amusing, and lets him know, so Robert apologizes, having the decency to look chagrined. “If you jest—”

 

“No, no! Forgive me, please, go on,” he says in earnest. “What else, other than riding?”

 

Lyanna meets his gaze long and hard, searching for deceit, but cannot find any, his interest genuine, still she wonders just how much she should reveal, of what makes her passionate, how much she should not.  _ But if I am truthful, and he finds fault in something….  _ Not yet bedded, Robert is also within his rights to annul this marriage.  _ Yet, if he doesn’t find fault? What then? _ If her southron husband appreciates her true self, what… what would she do then?

 

“Hawking, hunting,” she says in a rush, almost blurting out the words, before her doubts could get the better of her. “I’m a fairly good archer. I know how to…”

 

Robert lifts his eyebrows at her pause, scoots closer to her, looking intrigued. “How to…?”

 

A fortifying breath is all she needs to push on. “I can handle myself well enough with a lance and a sword.”

 

“Is that so?” His words alone might’ve been mocking, yet not his tone, not his expression. Robert looks surprised, intrigued, and something else she knows not how to describe. He sits up, grabs her hand and pulls her up as well. “Tell me. How it is you learned, because I assumed such rules were only slightly different in Dorne, where it’s known some women learn how to handle a weapon. Not here, in the North, Ned said nothing of it.”

 

“Oh, well…” Her cheeks bloom with heat. “That is…”

 

“Because, I never expected to have a warrior wife,” and the grin and his excitement is the most genuine she's ever seen, “but if Lord Stark thought this would displease me, he was wrong, and—”

 

“My lord father doesn't know,” she's intercedes, some of her shock melting into a frown. “He never allowed it, I had to convince Benjen to practice with me, I only learned what I could see in the training ground when I skipped my lessons.”

 

“So, I assume you've never been on a real hunt either?”

 

“Well…”

 

Robert's laugh is boisterous, clearly pleased with what he's hearing. “I'll be damned…”

 

“Father wasn't happy when he found out.” Lyanna smirks, remembering that day. “It was about two years ago, Father thought it was time Benjen went on his first hunt, but said I wasn't allowed to go. It didn't seem fair, so…” So she'd dressed up as a boy, snuck out with the hunting party, and managed to fell a beast on her own with a few well placed arrows. “I felled a big stag with only three arrows.”

 

Robert laughs again, and she goes on to tell him all about the fit her Father had, the amusement shared among the men, and how happy Brandon and Benjen had looked upon her discovery. In the midst of her tale, she moves to lean comfortably on the headboard, yet Robert doesn't relinquish his hold on her hand. Lyanna doesn't mind, and they sit close as she continues sharing bits and pieces of her life with him.

 

“What of your passions, Robert?” And she surprises even herself by asking, realizing she's genuinely curious. “I'd like to know.”

 

“I am a man of big appetites,” he says with a wink, almost in jest.

 

Lyanna is unimpressed. “And even bigger lusts?”

 

It is mostly rhetorical, her question, but Robert's grin tells her she's not wrong.

 

“Mayhaps. Big, bigger, it is the simple things that please me in the end.”

 

“Simple?”

 

Robert sits cross-legged in front of her, and he leans forward until there is little distance between their faces. “A good fight, a good hunt.” He brings her hand to his lips, places a kiss she's certain borders on the inappropriate, the way it feels, and says, “a good fuck.”

 

The heat is quick to climb up her neck as she struggles to hold his gaze, feels suddenly like burning; simple, he says, yes. She understands those simple things well enough.

 

*****

 

Lyanna wakes later than usual, she knows, to the knock, knock,  _ knock  _ on the wooden door and the high-pitched call of girls. Her handmaids, apparently, she has another one now. Tired still, she could go back to sleep quickly, gladly, thinks of doing just that, when one of the two girls grabs the furs and sheets and takes them from her, prompting a whine from Lyanna as they giggle stupidly.

 

“Come now, m’lady, time to rise,” says one of the girls, the new one, a pretty thing with short blonde hair and light blue eyes, taller and older than her, and Lyanna wonders with annoyance if Robert's bedded her and that's why she's here as her handmaid. “Lord Baratheon awaits you in the stables.”

 

The blush dusting over cheeks tells her all she needs to know, at least of the girl's side of this.  _ Brandon said he'd talked to him, _ she thinks as she's quickly hauled over a steaming tub, stripped and urged into the hot water,  _ Robert wouldn't be so foolish as to keep a mistress this close, this boldly. _ She has to have a little faith, especially after last night.  _ I'll not jump into conclusions. Yet. _ As quickly as she was put in the water, she's been taken out, but Lyanna is not quick enough to lift her leg and she ends up banging her knee on the edge of the tub.

 

Her pained hiss is loud and her maids stop, stare for a while before Lorra looks away, cheeks a bright red, and Lyanna wishes she could hide under the furs right  _ now— _ she's well aware of what they're thinking now.  _ What they think made me hiss in pain, _ she winces, and looks away too, embarrassed.  _ Can't be helped, even if it's not true. _ Yet they can't know that, no one can.

 

“Must be a worthy pain, m’lady. I’ve heard it is, when you lay with a worthy man,” the new girl says, ignores her shocked expression and Lorra’s hissed command to  _ shut  _ up, her cheeks brightening. “My lord Baratheon is very handsome, I know wouldn’t mind the pain if—”

 

“Kella!”

 

“Oh!” Kella blinks, the dawning realization of what her words imply, state, falling on her quickly, and she bows her head in chagrin. “Please, forgive me, m’lady Lyanna, I meant— I truly meant nothing by it. I’ve never—”

 

“Laid with my husband?” Lyanna asks slowly, waits for Kella to shake her head quickly, before proceeding. “How it is you came to be my maid, Kella?”

 

“My mother was one of Lady Cassana’s handmaids, and after m’lady died, it was decided I would be a maid to the next Lady Baratheon,” she says anxiously. “It’s why my—  _ Lord Baratheon _ brought me, m’lady, is all! I swear to you, I’d never—”

 

Lyanna stands tall, nude as she is, and looks this pretty girl straight in the eye. “You’ll never, because I’ll not stand for it.”

 

“Yes, m’lady.”

 

“We must hurry, now,” says Lorra, wrapping a drying sheet around her body, and leading her to her dresser. A soothing smile on her face, hopes to diffuse the tension, not doubt. “Lord Baratheon must have everything ready to depart.”

 

“Depart?” Lyanna blinks, sure she must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the conversation. “Depart where?”

 

Lorra smiles as Kella giggles on her other side, already back to her cheery self. “Oh, my lady Lyanna, your ride through the Wolfswood, of course! Lord Baratheon began preparing everything bright and early, he said you both would make a day of it.”

 

Suddenly, the conversation from last night comes back to the forefront of her mind, at least, the end of it.

 

_ “Tomorrow,” _ he’d said, rubbing circles in the back of her hand,  _ “we’ll go hunting. Just you and I.” _

 

_ “Truly? A real hunt?” _

 

_ “As real as I can make it, for the two of us.” _

 

It occurs to her now, she’d been so happy to hear those words she had forgotten to bring up what she’d thought to confront him about, what was left to say. And she is, again, pushing that confrontation aside,  _ if only because I want to enjoy this day. _ “Lorra, bring me my riding breeches and boots, please.”

 

Kella stops, a fetching dress in her arms. “Not a gown, m’lady?”

 

The prospect of going on a real hunt puts a smile on her face, all her previous annoyance gone and forgotten for the time being. “A dress is no garment for riding,” she says, even if she could, perfectly well, ride in one, she’d rather not be limited by the excess of layer for this.

 

Lorra comes back, and soon enough, she’s almost ready to leave, waits patiently before the glass until she hair is braided to her maids’ satisfaction. “A southron braid for your southron husband?”

 

“My southron husband should like my northern roots, I think.” She'll not have her hair in those silly and uncomfortable looking braids for this.

 

“Oh, he does, m’lady, he’s not shy to say so,” says Kella, smiling bright.

 

Just then, someone comes knocking, a pair of girls who bow upon seeing her and hurry to pick up all the used and dirty clothing, including the bedding. Lyanna is about to comment on that, before she remembers herself, rolls her eyes, and stands because she’s ready to go at last. But as she turns to the door, she freezes, gaze focusing on the sheets one of the girls is tugging off the feather mattress.

 

Lyanna sees red, literally, splotched on the white silk, a damning contrast; feels a chill like no other wrap around her bones as a thought crosses her mind.  _ I don’t… _ Her very mind, unable to conjure up a reason for those red splotches, other than,  _ than— _ She turns and sprints out of the chamber, amidst shocked gasps, down the hallway and then the stairs of the Guest House, seeing red, red,  _ red  _ and feeling the anger build and build until it threatens to explode in a messy—

 

Robert is alone in the stables, blessedly, perhaps, not that Lyanna really  _ cares  _ for secrecy now, not as she flies at him and beats at his chest with a feral growl, the accusations stuck in her throat and afraid to let them out lest they become real, and the splotches, the bloodstains,  _ those are real, real, he…! _

 

Her attack is halted, a big hand wrapping over both her wrists and she's suddenly chest to chest with her lord husband. “You said— you promised!” She growls, attempting to break free.

 

Robert looks mostly surprised, confused at her actions. “What's gotten into you?”

 

But Lyanna can't think past what she saw. “The  _ blood— _ you promised!” Horrified, her voice breaks a little.

 

However, that does it for him. He smiles, but before she can rage further, his right hand comes up to her face and he wiggles his thumb. Lyanna stops struggling, breath catching in her chest, and stares. And right there, in the center, there's a cut. Being calm, Robert lets go of her wrists, so she seizes his hand, putting pressure on the cut and watches it bleed freely, before she stops.

 

“Oh,” well now she doesn't know how to feel, for rushing to think the worst in the morning after. Or what to say, for that matter. “I…”

 

“I don't break my promises,” his voice is soft, solemn, as she’s only ever heard it once, just last night when they’d laid side by side. “I’ve no use for lies, Lyanna, know this. I’ll never lie to you. And since we didn’t…”

 

She nods, the anger leaving her in a rush. “Right, you did say you’d think of something.”

 

“Blood seemed like the surest option,” he says, turning to finish what he’d been doing before she stormed in. Briefly, she considers telling him there’s no certainty that she’d bleed, once they lay together for true, that she most likely lost her maidenhead horse riding years ago, but he doesn’t give her the chance, turning back around abruptly and with a bright grin. “Now, Lyanna, I’ve present for you.”

 

Enthusiastically, he grabs her hand and pulls her deeper into the stables, rambling how Ned had mentioned her love of horses once, while in The Vale, and that he’d searched high and low for the best horse to gift her with. By then, Lyanna followed his steps eagerly, almost positive she knows what her gift would be. And she’s right, yet the sight of the present steals her breath away. The horse is magnificent, white as snow, lively and strong, perhaps not as big as the one Robert tended to moments ago, but no less imposing; Lyanna is absolutely taken with it.

 

“Oh, Robert…” She lets go of his hand, and moves closer to the animal. “It’s wonderful.”

 

“A courser,” he explains, and she thinks to tell him she knows this already, but lets him speak, “it’s not a gelding, so it ought to grow more than the average, be faster.”

 

“I love it.”

 

His grin, when he comes to stand by her side, is nearly blinding. “I’ve not let anyone ride him since I bought him, or name him. That’s your right.”

 

He can't possibly know how much those words  _ mean _ to her, she can't let him. So, hugging her new horse tight, she mumbles a heartfelt thank you.

 

*****

 

They don't stay long in Winterfell, less than a fortnight before they set off to Harrenhal, for the tourney that is to be held soon.

 

While everyone prepares for it, well, mostly her brothers and Robert's–  _ hers _ and Robert's men, Lyanna makes the best of it to go riding through the Wolfswood with her lord husband. Much to the chagrin of Brandon, and the consternation of Ned and the confusion of Benjen, but there's little they can do now, especially since Father encourages her to spend as much with Robert as possible, believing she'd mellowed out to this marriage life.

 

If only he knew.

 

That first day, after their wedding, they'd rode off as soon as they'd saddled her new mount, which she promptly named Winter, and she'd grabbed some food from the kitchens.

 

_ “I've food right here,” _ Robert had said, with a grin and a pat to the saddlebag on his horse _. “There wasn't any need to raid the kitchens.” _

 

They'd rode deep into the Wolfswood, Lyanna pushing Winter to go faster each second passed; at one point a startled laugh, happy and free, broke free as the excitement filled her to the brim. The wind rushing past her, freeing locks of hair from her braid. Robert followed close behind, laughing as well, only calling out to her when it was time to stop. They did so by a small clearing, dismounted and tied their horses to a tree; Lyanna barely waited for him to turn around to grab his arm, invading his personal space.

 

She nearly hummed with anticipation.  _ “You said we'd hunt?” _

 

_ “Aye,” _ he procured a bow and a quiver, and added,  _ “catch me a rabbit.” _

 

Lyanna had known a moment of confusion, then  _ anger, _ believing he mocked her, but Robert explained he wanted to gauge just how skilled she truly was, with a smaller and faster target than the first  _ big stag _ she said she felled. A simple test, he'd said, and she'd passed it with a spectacular display of skill. And later, he'd helped her catch a small boar, corralling it so they wouldn't spend the whole day chasing it.

 

Father had thanked him for bringing it in, Robert had looked at her, and said it wasn't him he should thank.

 

The following days they took off earlier still, sometimes at dawn, other times before, went further into the woods, stopping by the river, and Robert spent the days with her assessing just how well she handled herself with a lance and a sword. Reviewing the basics, insisting on it despite her protests and grousing.

 

_ “Lyanna, I need to know your level of skill, before determining where to begin your training.” _

 

He'd looked so serious, her complaints died in her tongue, knowing she was already getting more than she could ever hope for, just by having him take her words seriously. Just by offering to train her at all. Yet he still wouldn't spar with her, wouldn't swing a weapon at her, and now, the day before they are to depart for Harrenhal, Lyanna gets impatient.

 

Robert has her going through the basics motions of swordplay to increase her resistance, her stamina, and then hitting a large tree with a blunted sword to build the strength of her arm. Sometimes, he even tells her to use her other arm, so she won't be defenseless were someone injure her dominant hand. So, it's in the middle of hitting the damned tree that she snaps, rounds on him and glares, barely holding back from attacking, or throwing the sword at him.

 

“When will you spar with me?” His pained expression is answer enough, and she struggles not to feel betrayed and foolish,  _ dejected. _ “You said you'd help me train…”

 

“And I am!” He rushes to her side, grabbing her shoulders and looking at her in earnest. “I am, but we must do this properly, I don't want you to risk injury–”

 

“Ser Rodrik has Benjen have friendly matches with Father's men regularly, so he knows what it is like to have someone swinging a blade at you and…”

 

“It's not in my nature to hold back, Lyanna…” Again, the pain overtakes his features, twisting in a grimace. “I fear you'll be severely hurt if we spar.”

 

“I'm not a delicate flower,” she replies, softly, petulantly.

 

“I am well aware, but you're nowhere near as strong as I am or as prepared to take a blow,” for all his merriment, his eternal smile and easy laughs, Robert can be quite serious when it's necessary. “I'll not risk a bruise on you, not by my hand, not when there's a high change it could be worse.”

 

The reminder that she is  _ not, _ and will never be as strong as he, stings deeply but Lyanna refuses to yield. She knew perfectly well what she would’ve been enduring for this training, knew the risks; she would not back down.

 

Not now.

 

“Robert,” she calls his name, tries to be beseeching, makes sure his eyes don't stray before dropping the blunted sword and reaching out to grab his arms. “I know my request pains you, I would not wish to hurt you in any way either… but this,” Lyanna tugs on his doublet, once, twice, until he's bending down to touch his forehead to hers. “This is  _ important _ to me, please.”

 

She pushes up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his; Robert freezes, and then melts into her with a shudder. Her first kiss was always going to be his, Lyanna thinks, in which case, she might as well use it to her advantage, get what she wants. His hands come to grab her waist, big and managing to encompass the whole of it, his mouth adding the smallest pressure to hers before she's pulling back. Her cheeks feel hot, her chest flutters dully, but one look at Robert and she knows she's won.

 

“Please,” she says again.

 

He caves.

 

*****

 

Surely, there is something wrong with her to be so happy every time her eyes land on the bruises spread across her skin.  _ This is proof, _ she thinks, feeling giddy,  _ this is proof I will get what I want. _ It'd been painful, for sure, for both she and Robert, but fruitful. Her muscles ache as much as the bruises, the sweetest reminder of improving her skills, little by little, and she'd been right in saying she needed to know what it is like to have someone swinging a blade at her.  _ Even if it came about unconventional means. _

 

Robert had caved, aye, but he'd immediately started by throwing her into the river and, once she'd gotten out, had giving her the blunted sword back after he'd picked up a sturdy looking branch.  _ “The soaked fabric of your clothes will help dull the hits, might even prevent some bruising,” _ he had still looked very much as someone who might’ve been tortured.  _ “I'll try to hold back, as much as I can.” _ And he'd succeeded, for the most part,  _ thankfully, _ because Lyanna won't admit, for fear that he would stop training her, but those hit that'd landed hurt like hells.

 

“How's the water?” His voice carries an edge to it, still; Lyanna looks up to meet his gaze, finding him frowning, just as she'd expected. “Is it helping?”

 

She can hear the real question beneath his words. “It's perfect,” she says, smiles wide and bright, hoping to assuage his guilt. “And it is helping, thank you.”

 

He winces, looks away with a clenched jaw.

 

Lyanna finds that she does not like this sulky behavior of his, misplaced guilt is not a becoming look on her husband, yet she understands why it is he's having such a hard time moving past this.  _ He wasn't supposed to see… _ But since they were trying to keep their adventures in the woods a secret, the moment they returned to find her maids ready to put her in a steaming bath, Lyanna had to dismiss them. Which meant Robert had to help her out of her clothes and into the bath.

 

“Would you come closer?”

 

He chances a glimpse in her direction, so she smiles again a reaches out with her hands, wiggling her fingers. It's always shocking that he would comply to her requests so easily, Lyanna watches as he looks away, sighs, and then stands up to come over the tub’s side. Robert kneels when she motions for him to get even closer, so they face each other easily.

 

She cups his cheek to keep his eyes on her. “I appreciate this, Robert, truly. That you are willing to let me practice swordplay at all…”

 

“I should've anticipated you would–” He tries to look away but her grip remains firm. “Padded ringmail, I should've thought of it.”

 

“It matters not, I'll carry this bruises with pride and next time–” His face crumples in agony, but she is resolute. “Next time, we'll worry about proper armor.”

 

“Lyanna…”

 

“Consider this as much practice for you as it is for me,” she says, with a tilt of the head and a smirk on her lips.

 

Robert doesn't get it. “How so?”

 

She'd hoped to avoid saying it, but she carries on, despite the heat climbing up her neck. “Once I bear you sons, you'll want to train them personally, at some point… So you'll have to learn to hold back on your attacks.”

 

That does it, his expression clears and something like hope shines in his eyes, then he smiles. “You are correct, I will want to train them personally.”

 

“Are we good then?”

 

Her husband stares intently at her, for long seconds, finally touching on a subject she'd not thought he would notice. “Know that I am not just indulging you in hopes that you'll grow fond of me faster, although I won't be dishonest and say that isn't part of the reason why I agreed to this.” He lifts his hand to cup her face, stroking her cheek gently with his thumb before dropping his hand to a bruise on her shoulder. “I barely know you, is true, but what I do know… I love you, Lyanna. Mayhaps I loved first the idea of you, but now I love you as you've presented yourself to me, not just what I knew from stories.”

 

“Oh… um.”

 

“So, I suppose what I mean to say is,” he pauses only to touch his forehead to hers, “you don't have to hide your true self from me, I will always love you, no matter what.”

 

“I…” Her eyes flutter, as does her chest, Lyanna tilts her chin up a little, unconsciously rubbing their noses together, and softly says, “alright.”


	9. day three, take two - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Lyanna has many feels, Robert plays video games, and Jon sleeps.
> 
> also, the heat sucks.

Lyanna wakes up feeling disoriented, blinks her eyes into the darkness and tries to think of what woke her. And then she hears it –  _ nothing. _ Looking at her nightstand, her digital clock blinks merrily at her, showing it's just past two in the morning, and Jon is not crying.

 

”Right,” she mumbles, stumbling out of bed, she makes the short trip to Jon's room and finds it empty. Though before panic can set in, she hears faint noises coming from the living room.  _ “Right.” _

 

Stumbling through the darkness, following the flickering light, she yawns and considers just turning around and going back to sleep, get as many hours as she can in this infernal heat. It’s not like this is a new occurrence, Robert taking care of Jon in the nights, since he seems to be perfectly fine running on six hours of sleep. But it wouldn’t be fair, she knows, so she’ll go get her son. Once she leaves the hall, Lyanna stops, rubs her eyes  _ because  _ the sight before her can't be real. Her nose twitches, she grimaces, recognizing that smell.

 

Robert sits on the couch, more like sprawls on it, in only a pair of boxer shorts, left leg bent and resting on the center table while he bounces his right knee slowly. He's got his X-BOX 1 on, headset in place as he whispers urgently, mashing the controller's buttons yet managing to keep as still as possible. Understandably, since her baby sleeps peacefully, cradled in his right arm, little head nestled comfortably in the crook of Robert’s shoulder and little bum up in the air, and goddammit but she’ll never stop being surprised at the contrast between her small baby boy and the solid muscled frame of her roommate. Even in the dim white light of the TV, she can see the muscles of his arm, the arm cradling Jon, ripple and twitch with the strain to keep from moving wildly as he liked to do while playing Fortnite.

 

There’s a cigarette in his mouth, a fan by his right blowing the smoke away from them, but the fact remains that he has  _ that piece of crap _ in his mouth when she’d explicitly told him not to smoke around her son. Even with certain windows open, to allow the smoke and smell to vanish in the air and leave no traces, Lyanna is  _ not  _ happy.

 

Growling under her breath, she walks slowly towards the couch, trying to make not a single noise.

 

“Hey,  _ a-hole, _ I’m telling you to back—” He stops short when she slides onto the couch, right next to him by his left, gives her a wide-eyed look, gaze roving over her body, before grinning sheepishly and mouthing his greetings. His attention is soon back on the game, unaware of the brewing storm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just back me the  _ eff  _ up, dude.”

 

Lyanna snatches that offending piece of crap from his lips, would punch his shoulder or slap the back of his head if he weren’t holding Jon, instead she glares and snuffs it out in the ashtray placed on the table. “I thought we agreed you’d not smoke around my son?”

 

Robert pouts at her, before focusing his gaze back on his game. “You— no, not you, a-hole, I’m in the middle of something here, so don’t eavesdrop, just back me up.” A quick glance at her, and he talks again, softly. “You don’t usually sleep well in this heat, so when the kid started crying…”

 

It’s odd, Lyanna thinks, that he calls Jon  _ ‘kid’ _ and still manages to make it come out fondly. Odder still that such a thing makes her chest flutter before she shoves it all side. Shaking her head, and promising silent retribution on Robert for ignoring her wishes later, she moves to kneel on the cushions and reaches over to pick Jon off him, when he lifts his left arm to block her attempts.

 

“Stop,  _ stop _ ,” he whispers urgently, leaning away, “leave him here, I’m winning.”

 

“I can tell,” she replies, trying to get her son back, and being stopped again. “Robert, let me take him so you can play. Also, so I can  _ punch  _ you for smoking around him.”

 

“He’s my lucky charm, you’re not taking him,” and again, he leans further away, slowly and smoothly, making sure to keep from jostling Jon and to play his game. “And as I was saying, I was already on a roll here when he woke up crying. I had to make a snap decision. And I chose to let you rest.”

 

“The cigarette—”

 

“Yeah, I know, which is why I placed the fan right here next to—” His abrupt stop makes her pause, sit back on the couch and watch him curiously as he frowns, growling low in his throat and his cheeks turn a bright red. “Shut the  _ eff  _ up, a-hole,” he growls, turning his head slightly away from her. “I’ll kick your A-S-S next time I see you if you keep this up, you know I will.”

 

She pulls on his cropped hair to get his attention. “Who is it?”

 

The blush still taints his cheeks, and she’s tempted to ask who could’ve made him mad enough, or embarrassed enough, to accomplish that. “Brandon’s little falcon.”

 

Lyanna frowns, nodding. Elbert is nice enough most times, but he tends to have a weird sense of humor and thinks just because he’s Brandon’s best friend he’s entitled to make all sort of jokes about situations he knows nothing about. She recalls punching him one time, though she’s sure he’ll deny it.

 

“Yeah, well, I’m sure your chick will love to hear of this,” Robert keeps whispering into the mic, stopping again all attempts of her taking Jon from his arms. “I introduced her to you,  _ a-hole, _ I’ve still got her number. Ha, yeah, that’s— to the left,  _ to the left, _ you effing moron.”

 

The smile comes even before she can stop it. Watching him get this excited about this stupid game always makes her laugh, and something else she’s not willing to acknowledge right now. With a sigh, Lyanna gives up, she takes the ashtray to the kitchen, making a mental note to scold Robert properly later that day, and goes back to adjust the fan’s position, picking it up and moving it a bit further away so the air hits them all three, since she won’t be going back to bed anytime soon, none of them are, except Jon who sleeps without a care.

 

When she straightens up and turns to walk back to the couch, Lyanna finds his eyes locked on her. “Robert?” She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him an unimpressed look. “Looking for something?”

 

He blinks and puts on an innocent front, smiling. “Is that my jersey?”

 

Now it’s her trying to put up an innocent front. “Maybe?” Makes a face, sauntering back to the couch despite his smirk. It had been a snap decision, to be honest, Lyanna had forgotten to do laundry, being so busy with Jon, and had taken the jersey from Robert’s clean laundry basket, promising to herself she’d return it as soon as possible. But she found it so comfy and  _ perfect  _ to sleep in during this stupid summer… “I found it lying around. Could be anyone’s.”

 

His smirk stays, well past the time it should’ve but she says nothing, simply settles by his side and watches him play campaign after campaign and win. Bantering with Elbert yet lacking much of the friendly vibe he has when it’s Ned on the other side of that connection, most of the insults flowing from Robert sound as they are,  _ insults, _ and she can guess he gets the same. Lyanna begins to feels sleepy after a while, she can’t be sure how much time passes, but the urge to lean on Robert’s shoulder and close her eyes is too tempting. Too damn tempting, so she does the exact opposite, dropping back first onto the cushions and throw pillows as she turns her focus on her roommate and son.

 

She’s as much of a fan of videogames as Robert is, but has never gotten into Fortnite as avidly as he.

 

It’s an unconscious move, tucking her feet under his thigh, as she settles more comfortably, gets ready to sleep. Robert grins at her briefly before going back to whispering commands and insults at Elbert. Lyanna grins back, then she sighs and simply looks at the scene before her. Relaxed as he plays his damn game with a baby in his arms, and once again she’s surprised by how  _ tiny  _ her son looks in his arms.  _ Cute, _ comes the thought then,  _ they look cute. _ She blinks slowly, the soft whispering of Robert and the cool breeze from the fan lulling her to sleep steadily, but she blinks again and suddenly,  _ suddenly— _

 

She’s never thought much about it, not in broad daylight, there was never any need _ but. _ But—

 

Oh, she thinks through the haze,  _ his hair… it looks black. _ In the dimly lit living room, mostly shrouded in darkness, Jon’s hair matches Robert’s in color and shape, cropped short due to the stupid heat.  _ His hair is black, like this… it looks, they look…  _ Lyanna blinks and feels as if her chest is being squeezed tight,  _ tight  _ until she can’t breath. Then the pain and resentment, and the anger and,  _ and— _ it all hits her full force.

 

It suddenly comes to her it shouldn’t  _ be  _ like this, this scene, this moment,  _ this goddamned everything. _ Life shouldn’t have screwed her over like this,  _ he shouldn’t have, _ goddammit but he shouldn’t have  _ ripped  _ her heart out and stomped on it. Over a year, and Lyanna still hurts, still rages, still wonders why, why,  _ why. _ All the hopes and plans and dreams  _ that were all mine, mine, mine and never, never— _ The regret is not welcomed, not now, not when Robert nudges her leg, gives her a curious look as he still plots and plans with Elbert while keeping a careful eye on the game and a steady arm for Jon.

 

He mouths, “you okay?”

 

And there comes another  _ traitorous  _ thought she bashes into submission before it can take shape. Lyanna shakes her head, moves quickly away from him, stands and hurries to her bedroom.

 

“I’m not okay,” she whispers into the dark and stuffy room, hands clenching at her sides as she slumps back onto her door.  _ I don’t think I’ll ever be. _

 

No time at all passes when her door rumbles with a knock, she considers not answering, but knows there’s no way she can fake sleep now. Not so soon. With a sigh she opens the door.

 

Robert shuffles his feet, looking at her in worry; in his arms, Jon is awake, if barely as he rubs his eyes with one hand while sucking on his thumb, a habit she’s been trying to break as of late. “Hey, are you…” He rubs the back of his neck, and that’s when she notices he’s missing his headset. “Wanna come camp out in the living room with me and Jon? Since the heat won’t let up, and it’s clear the rooms are… not ideal to sleep, um…”

 

“Weren’t you playing with Elbert?”

 

“Yeah, he’s waiting for me. Brandon, too, he just logged in,” he says, and grins sheepishly at her. “So, yay or nay? I really need my lucky charm right now.”

 

“I thought Jon was your lucky charm?”

 

Her son’s stopped rubbing his eyes, but he sucks his thumb still as he watches her attentively now.

 

“Yeah, but he’s awake and is easily excited with all the flashy colors—” A tiny hand colliding with his face cuts Robert’s sentence short, they both chuckle, Lyanna dearly glad for it. “See? Easily excited, I need you to hold him. So, yay?”

 

A part of her wants to slam the door in his face and hide under her sheets, but she has never been one to let anyone,  _ especially  _ someone who’s no longer part of her life, get her down, and she won’t start now.

 

“Yay,” she says, with a smile and finally taking her son in her arms, relishing the feel of his tiny frame molding to her chest. “Me and Jon will cheer you on as you play dirty against a bunch of pre-teens.”

 

Robert gasps, hand flying to his chest. “You wound me, Lya, I would never play dirty.” And then he cracks a smirk under her heavy judgment, because he most certainly  _ did. _ “Not against a bunch of pre-teens. Just Brandon.”

 

Camping out where the fan is seems like the better idea for spending the rest of the night, she concedes in her mind. Watches as Robert places his headset back on and grabs the controller, pushing the table away to make room for his legs when he sits on the floor. Lyanna places Jon in his lap and hurries into the kitchen, grabbing some snacks for them, something Robert appreciates if his double thumb-ups mean anything. When she goes to take Jon back, her baby boy whines and leans away, and that’s when Lyanna notices the second controller in his little hands.

 

She laughs, sitting next to him. “Really, Bobby? He won’t let you play.”

 

“Nah, we’ll win, you’ll see,” and he winks. “You both are the best lucky charm I could ask for.”


	10. day four, take two - brandon/catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [sequel to 'day two, take one'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028799/chapters/34880900)
> 
> in which Brandon struggles and then not so much.

Standing in ceremony seems a bit pointless when welcoming family into their home, but Father insists it must be done regardless, especially when greeting the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.  _ But Lyanna is my sister, your daughter, _ he'd wanted to say,  _ we shouldn't need to bother with such formalities. _ But Brandon kept his silence, not wanting to antagonize his father any further.

 

_ “You will not shame your wife within these walls!” _

 

Jaw flexing, he still feels the sting of the blow his father had given him then, weeks ago, thinks it more deserving now that he'd had the time to ponder on his actions. At the time, however, he'd thought it unfair, had snapped back that he should be allowed to seek pleasure elsewhere if his wife denied him. That he should not be punished for her unjust judgment, her refusal to do her duty only because a few rumors upset her, even if he'd not sought her out since her belly began to grow.

 

Brandon hadn't said those rumors held truth to them, he'd not had to; and then taking the maidenhead of one of Catelyn’s handmaids had not been his most stellar moment, but he'd not imagined the consequences to be so dire that his father had to ride out with her to clean up his mess. How his lord father had found out about it, he fears he'll never know, but Brandon had been emboldened when he was confronted, defiant.

 

_ “I shame her no more than what you did Mother.” _

 

He'd not expected the next blow that tumbled him to the floor. Brandon remembers tasting blood, remembers looking up and finding  _ Lord Stark _ seething, glaring down at him, fury and disappointment etched in every line of his face.

 

_ “I claim no innocence, I had my share of women, even while wed to your Mother,” _ he'd said, deceptively calm.  _ “But never within the walls of Winterfell. Never in our home. Here I was hers and hers only.” _ Then Father—no, Lord Stark, it had been Lord Stark—hauled him to his feet and shoved him onto the nearest chair, walking away from him and closer to the windows of his solar.  _ “I'll not have you succeed me, Brandon, lest you change your ways. I'll name your son as my heir, if I must, before leaving the North in your care. The boy is six and he already shows more honor and respect than his own father… Have I made myself clear?” _

 

_ “Yes, my lord.” _

 

_ “I suggest you mend this rift with my gooddaughter, I'll not have my bannermen see this as a weakness on your part.” _

 

_ “Yes, my lord.” _

 

The blaring of horns announcing the arrival of his sister snap him out of his reverie. Brandon blinks, stands straighter next to his father as the portcullis opens.

 

Catelyn shifts closer to him; when he nudges her arm gently with his elbow, he's glad to feel her hand wrap around it. He'll count his blessing, since the cut lip he'd acquired from Lord Stark had mellowed her out; Catelyn had taken him into her care, and with a little bit of coaxing, into her bed as well. And it had been a novelty, that, for Brandon had never before bedded a woman with child, thinking he'd find it distasteful.  _ I was wrong. _ He’d not found it distasteful, his bride had been much more responsive than he remembered her to be, and that had shocked him, but it hadn’t been as exciting as usual. It was simply different, new; he cannot say if it’s something he’d like to make a habit of.  _ But I would not be opposed to doing it again, if I must confine myself to her bed while in Winterfell. _

 

His father’s parting words come back to him, then, accusing yet offering a solution should he feel himself unable to bed Catelyn again while she’s with child.

 

_ “If you must seek satisfaction with someone other than your wife, then find a whore and take her to the Wolfsgood, away from prying eyes. _ ”

 

Brandon spares a glance at his son, a little lord in the making already, standing by Catelyn’s right, nearly humming in excitement as he bounces in his heels, trying to catch a glimpse of—

 

“LYA!”

 

—the excited shout comes not from his child, but his youngest brother.

 

Benjen rushes forward just as Lyanna dismounts her palfrey, catches her in an embrace that lifts her off the ground among laughter, spinning in circles. Their house guard chuckle at the display, and even Father, despite his frown and grumbling, smiles ruefully at his youngest children’s enthusiasm.

 

“Mother, I can't see him,” Robb tries not to whine, yet he fails, a child still, 

and he spares her a glance just as a booming laugh echoes across the yard. “Jon!”

 

His nephew dismounts quickly, much to the chagrin of his parents who aren't fast enough to stop him, but Jon proves adept enough that he doesn't fall and lands on the ground with little difficulty. By then Robb had run across the yard, and soon crashes into the boy, sending them both tumbling down amidst laughter.

 

His attention shifts when Catelyn squeezes his arm tightly, hissing under her breath. “What is it?” He asks, turning to her and drowning out all other sounds. “Cat, are you well? The babe?”

 

“Mama?”

 

The sweet, melodious voice of their daughter breaks through his mounting panic since his wife keeps hissing while holding her rounding belly now, wincing in pain. Sansa looks worried, scared, and when she looks at him with wide eyes, he's suddenly at a loss of what to say. Until Father kneels by her side, smiling gently as he picks her up, whispering there is nothing to worry about, yet still looking very much concerned if better at hiding it from the child.

 

Catelyn smiles weakly, leaning heavily on him now. “I'm well, but the babe…” Her sentence is cut short by another wince, “the babe has a strong kick, is all.”

 

By then they've drawn attention to themselves, and a small part of him is amused if a little vindictive once he realizes Father's attempt to follow proper greetings hadn't worked. Catelyn blushes under all the staring, as lovely as ever, and still tries to greet their guests as a lady should. Father sighs as Lyanna pulls Ned into a tight embrace, laughing again, moving to greet Ashara quickly before focusing on the child in their goodsister’s arms, baby Lyarra; he turns instead to Robert who walks closer still with a twin in each hand  _ (and hadn’t that been a shock, when they’d gotten the news) _ and their second son trailing after him.

 

“My lord Stark,” he says, nodding at Father who returns the greeting much the same, and surprisingly not breaking off proper protocol when no one else has adhered to it.

 

“Lord Baratheon,” Father looks pleased, even as he replies in a even tone, though his expression is less stern now that Sansa sits in his arms, clinging to his neck. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

 

But that’s as far as it goes, Robert laughs and then releases the twins who take off towards Jon and Robb without so much of a greeting. “It’s good to be here, Father!” Always bold, that one, even through Father’s less than agreeable stare. “And Sansa! Look at you, growing big and pretty every day.”

 

His daughter smiles shyly at Robert, then hides her face in her grandfather’s neck.

 

By then the chaos of greetings in the courtyard had reached its peak. Lyanna embraces Catelyn gently if longer than she had Ashara, they whisper to each other and then his sister leans back and grins as she looks at the rounded belly. Whatever it is she says, gets lost under Robert’s calling him ‘brother’ and slapping his shoulder, over Benjen grabbing hold of the twins before they could run too far, and then Robert again greeting Ashara and his niece warmly. Lyanna’s second boy, Steffon, comes closer to grab at her skirts as she keeps chatting with Catelyn, and after ruffling his hair, getting a grin in return, Brandon goes to give out the proper orders as his father is completely occupied with Sansa now.

 

He meets his father's gaze when he’s done, happy to note the approval in his blue-grey eyes, just as Lyanna calls him over.

 

“Brandon!” She jumps into his arms much as she did when they were children. “It’s good to see you!”

 

“It’s good to hear that,” he replies, lifting her off the ground and spinning in a circle, before putting her down. “Missed your favorite brother?”

 

Lyanna laughs but doesn’t deny his words. “You know I did, but don’t tell Ben.”

 

“Don’t tell me what?”

 

Brandon rolls his eyes and smirks when Benjen appears suddenly, struggling to control the littlest Baratheons. “Are they never still?”

 

“No,” says Lyanna, and then she tells their brother to put the boys on the ground, as she kneels before them. “What did I say before we set off this morning?”

 

The twins grin at her, but say nothing.

 

“Don’t make me tie you up, kids!” Robert approaches them, Ned and Ashara and their daughter trailing after him. “You know I would.”

 

That makes their eyes light up. “Yes! Yes, tie us!”

 

Lyanna huffs and gives Robert a glare. “Thank you for putting that idea in their heads.”

 

“At least they’ll be still for a while.” He grabs each twin by their clothes and lifts them until they’re level with him. “Go play with Jon, and try not to break anything, understood?”

 

“Yes, papa!”

 

As soon as their feet touch the ground, the pair takes off after their big brother and cousin, who head into the castle about now, calling them over and over, not stopping even as they stumble on the steps.

 

“They're a rowdy pair,” Ashara says, her voice carrying a trembling quality to it that Brandon quickly recognizes as a prelude to violent shaking due to cold. “Jon as well.”

 

Catelyn, he remembers, had been like that during their first year of marriage, and he might’ve used it to charm his way into her bed on a daily basis under the pretense to help her keep warm. Until she’d been given the warmest chambers in the castle, Brandon recalls lamenting the lost opportunity, always having found those chambers to be rather hot and stuffy, briefly though since his lady wife had told him over her wine cup, as they supped alone, eyes shining wickedly and fighting back a smirk, how she seemed unable to shake off the chill and  _ won’t you share my bed tonight, my lord? _ He couldn’t have moved quick enough to take her to bed, truly.

 

Gods, but that first year had been glorious, and the two following Robb’s birth, whenever he could coax her away from their son; if Brandon had it him not to be so restless, he’d keep to her bed and be happy for it.

 

“They’re a rowdy bunch, all four of them.”

 

Lyanna’s voice cuts through his musings, and he blinks and catches his sister smiling at Steffon, ruffling his black hair, and earning a grin from the child. It’s then he realizes Benjen had been caught up in the boys’ game, dragged into the castle, that Father awaits them by the entrance with Sansa still in his arms. That Robert currently has an arm slung around Ned’s neck and is steering him away, and he’s left in the company of his wife, his sister, and goodsister. And nephew.

 

But not for long.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Lyanna moves to link her arm with Catelyn’s, stealing her away despite her protests, and leads her away chatting animatedly. “I know the last two pregnancies weren’t the best…”

 

Brandon watches as Steffon runs ahead of them and then turns to meet Ashara’s eyes, watches her blinks, then cradle her daughter closer to her chest, and with a smile, she walks away. He sighs. It’s been nearly eight years since the Tourney, since he laid with her in one of the many empty chambers of Harrenhal. She’d been lovely then, with her long dark hair and startling purple eyes; he wonders what makes her less lovely now. Is it the passage of time, motherhood, knowing she's belongs to someone else? It’d been fun, their short time together, but he had honestly never expected to see her again, had put her off his mind for years until Ned came begging Father to let him court her, that he’d like to wed her.

 

Gods be good, but he’d even forgotten Ned’s crush on her back then, thought it a passing thing, so that had been a surprised.

 

An awkward one, at that.

 

With a shake of the head, he follows after his family, deciding to enjoy the time spent together before his father’s bannermen arrive.

 

*****

 

Mayhaps not the best place to lounge about, but with the Great Keep full of children running about and spouses, Brandon is not surprised that they’ve all ended up sitting by the pond in front of the heart tree. Lyanna and Benjen sit by the edge of the pond, dipping their feet in the cool water, while he and Ned sit by the roots of the great weirwood tree.

 

“I missed this,” says their sister, kicking out her legs and splashing around with childish delight. “Storm’s End has no pond in its godswood. And it’s so  _ hot _ in this bloody summer.”

 

“Can’t you go down to the shore?” Benjen asks.

 

“The nearest beach is about an hour’s ride south of the castle, it’s easier to go out into the rivers.” The underlying whine in her voice makes him share a smile with Ned. “Although, the underground caves  _ do _ have shores and afford enough privacy…”

 

Her smirk is surprising.

 

“Why’d you need any privacy?”

 

Lyanna blinks, looks at Benjen in the eyes and deadpans, “Robert likes to swim nude.”

 

Brandon laughs uproariously, as Ned chuckles next to him, yet Benjen frowns in distaste and splashes water at her, telling her to keep her adventures with her husband to herself.

 

As the moments passes, and the quiet settles again, Ned nudges him with his elbow. “Will you tell me, Brandon, why is it that Ashara acquired a new handmaid?”

 

Well, damn him, that’s the one thing he’d rather forget about now. “Father exaggerated,” he says, instilling as much finality to his tone as possible.

 

“So it wasn't because he found out you fucked her in the stables?”

 

“Lyanna!”

 

She looks over her shoulder, all innocent smile and shrugging.

 

But it’s Benjen who says, “It was exactly that.”

 

“Shut up, brat,” he’ll not stand for this mockery, “I'm your liege lord and—”

 

His littlest brother smirks, standing from his place by the pond and walking closer. “I'm a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.”

 

“And you are lord of nothing, Brandon,” says Ned, delivering the final blow.

 

“Damn you three.” Brandon kicks at some dirt, scowling. “So I fucked her handmaid, what's the harm? It was moons ago, and at the time, Cat was denying me! All because of a bloody rumor. She failed to do her duty—”

 

Benjen frowns. “Brandon.”

 

“A lady's duty goes beyond spreading her legs for her husband!” Her words are accompanied with mud splattering on his chest, Lyanna stands by the pond, glaring at him. “Or is that really all you think we’re good for? Bearing heirs and men’s callous advances?”

 

“No, no, I– I’m sorry, Lya, it’s just…” He runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “Father’s already been giving me a hard time for it. I don’t need you three to pile on it.”

 

She scoffs. “Father’s right, though.”

 

“We're good now, but…” Brandon grins at her as she approaches. “Can you talk to her, Lya?”

 

“What should I say?”

 

“I don’t know. You handle Robert’s infidelity well en—”

 

The next splatter of mud lands on his face, and perhaps, perhaps, Brandon admits to deserving it.

 

“That is different,” Lyanna says nonetheless. “I didn’t love Robert when we wed, you know that. Catelyn has loved you from the very beginning. Of course she will be hurt and upset upon hearing rumors of your infidelities.”

 

Brandon stands, rubbing the mud off his face. “Will you help me, then?”

 

“Keep it in your breeches,  _ that _ will help.”

 

“An apology might also help,” says Ned.

 

Lyanna glares upon hearing that, hearing about his lack of apology, and he must hasten to explain. “She’s no longer angry! I didn’t think I’d have to—”

 

Behind their sister, Benjen shakes his head, looking much too similar to Father when he was disappointed in him.

 

“Brandon’s stupidity aside,” says Ned, standing up and clapping his shoulder. “We should be heading back to the castle now, before we are missed.”

 

“Do you mean to say you’re  _ only _ missed when you’ve been gone long periods of time, dearest Ned?”

 

He laughs heartily, happy for the teasing to move onto someone else, even if it means a frowning Ned. “I do believe you’ve hit on a sensitive topic, dear sister of mine.”

 

“Come now, you two,” Benjen, in a strange move to be the pacifist, slings an arm over Ned’s shoulder to show his support, “not everyone has the luck of having spouses that would be happy to be attached to your hip.”

 

Brandon scoffs, and begins walking towards the godswood’s entrance. “Catelyn is not like that.”

 

“Neither is Robert,” says Lyanna, hurrying to catch up with him.

 

Benjen doesn’t let go. “Is that so? Forgive my assumptions,  _ clearly, _ the past few days have been a mistake then. Surely, he’s not been by your side all the time!”

 

Their sister growls at him over her shoulder, which makes her miss the surprise that awaits them midway on the path. “He’s not here now, is he?”

 

Brandon smirks, nudging her arm. “Isn’t he?”

 

Robert stops in the middle of their path, smiling wide as they approach, and quickly sweeping Lyanna into his arms once she’s within reach. “Food’s about to be served, so I’ve come to fetch you.”

 

Benjen passes them by, flashing a smirk at them. “Oh, yes, I most certainly misread the situation.” He skips away with a laugh when Lyanna tries to hit him.

 

“What was that about?”

 

“Just Benjen trying to be funny,” replies Lyanna.

 

But Ned interjects with the truth. “He was proving a point.”

 

It suddenly occurs to Brandon, his sister is not trying to break Robert’s embrace as she once might have, as she once did in the early times of her marriage. He wonders about that, considers Benjen words,  _ mayhaps there's more to it than what they let on. _

 

*****

 

It's a sad realization that he's grown used to having his siblings far away, that he barely stands to spend much time around them.  _ Or around their teasing. _ It is definitely their teasing if Brandon allows himself a moment of honesty, their teasing and their lack of sympathy for his situation.  _ A man makes a mistake and suddenly it's the end of the world, _ an exaggeration, perhaps, but one he will allow in the solitude of his mind. It rankles that Lyanna, his own sister, would not be more sympathetic, isn't that what family is for? He's supposed to be the favorite brother!

 

_ The Others take them, _ he thinks, getting comfortable in his hiding place,  _ the brats. _

 

Though hiding away at the top of the First Keep is perfect as no one would find him, he loses track of time, and only realizes it when the room’s gone dark and there’s shuffling and huffing coming from the stairs. “Who comes?” He demands, a bit of annoyance leaking through his voice at knowing himself interrupted.

 

“It’s me—”

 

The pained hiss cuts off the sentence and Brandon is leaping to his feet and dashing for the stairs, even before he consciously acknowledges who it is that’s come for him. “Cat!” He finds her leaning on the wall, holding onto her belly again as she takes deep breaths. He's by her side in an instant, waves off her protests gently, with a smile and a kiss, and sweeps her off her feet. “You shouldn't’ve come, something could've happened–”

 

“I was worried, my lord.” Her cheeks attain that fetching red tint that never fails to come in his presence, although now it could as well be the long trek up the stairs. Her eyes are clear and look at him attentively. “You… Brandon, you looked very upset.”

 

He can't avoid the bashfulness that washes over him, bringing forth the thought that he is being rather childish. “It's nothing,” he tries to deflect, but up this close, there's no hiding from her all-knowing gaze. “Just some friendly banter between siblings.”

 

He sets her on her feet and sits back on the pile of furs that have seen better days, and then grins at her, patting his lap, before reaching out with both hands.

 

Catelyn scoffs softly, shaking her head. “You'll not want me on your lap as heavy as I am.”

 

“Nonsense,” he says, and grabs hold of her hands, slowly helping her sit next to him when she resists, “I'll have my wife on my lap anytime, any day of our lives.”

 

“You'll not say so once I get bigger still…”

 

He leans over to kiss her, interrupting her claims, that may or may not hold some truth to them. “Then I'll have to prove you wrong,” he says, getting a smile in reply.

 

Conversation over for the time being, Brandon leans back onto the furs, and looks at the darkening sky through the fallen roof, enjoying the quiet and Catelyn’s presence. After a few moments, he reaches for her arm and urges her to lie back, thinking it might be uncomfortable because of the babe; she goes willingly, but chooses to speak.

 

“Why were you upset, truly?”

 

“I'm just not used to having all my siblings teasing me, is all.”

 

“Is it that bad? You're Lya’s favorite brother, I didn't think…”

 

“It was about you,” he says, with a grin, a partial truth, as he's no desire to hurt her. “We were all giving each other a hard time,”  _ I just took it the worst. _ Shaking his head, Brandon shifts and props up onto his elbow, to look at her. “Catelyn, I wish to apologise.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Reaching for her hand, he says, “for not speaking up once the rumors began circulating about me and Lady Dustin,” he keeps the contact, rubbing circles in the inside of her wrist hoping to soothe her. “I'll confess we had a tryst, but that was long before you and I wed, Cat. I know I should've said something, I shouldn't have let you believe-”

 

“What of my handmaid? Tell me truly, Brandon.”

 

He is many things, but never a liar. “Aye, I laid with her. It was a mistake, I know that,” one he still feels keenly even if his cut lip has healed, “a mistake I will not repeat ever again. I promise you, I'll not shame you within the walls of our home, lest of all with your maids and companions.”

 

As beautiful as she is, his wife is also very clever, and hears loud and clear what he won't speak out loud. “Very well, that is all I ask.” Before anything else can be said, she jerks up, eyes wide and smiling, she hurries to place his hand on her belly, and there, right there, Brandon feels it. The kick. “Did you feel– ouch!”

 

Her discomfort is understandable, the babe has a powerful kick. Brandon laughs, exuberant, and dives in to kiss her deeply. “I feel it, our babe.”

 

“He'll be strong,” Catelyn says even as her face twists into a wince. “Like his father.”

 

“He'll be as clever as his mother, too.”

 

“I hope it takes after you, a Stark looking boy…”

 

They leave his apology and confession behind, for now, focused as they are in their babe. Brandon barely registers her words, the wistfulness of her voice, faced, suddenly, with an epiphany. Something he should’ve realized ages ago, but was too stupid to see it.

 

“My lady,” he whispers softly, “may I tell you how lucky I am for having you as my wife? Truly, Cat, I am so lucky to have you.”

 

And it is the truth, really.

 

“You may,” the quirk of her mouth betrays the meaning of her words, but the shine of her eyes do tell him she's incredibly touched by his statement. “I am just as blessed to have you.” And then, just as suddenly, her face turns that fetching pink again. “Would you come to my chambers tonight, my lord?”

 

“Is that a proposition, my lady?”

 

Her lips curve into that smile he's come to recognize as a prelude to a very pleasant night, tantalising. “It is.”

 

How can he refuse such a delightful invitation? “I would, I will.”


	11. day five, take two - robert/lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [sequel to day one, take one of this same collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028799/chapters/34840322)
> 
> in which Robert finally cracks, and Lyanna gets some of what she wants

It’s late into the night when Lyanna stumbles into the apartment.

 

Not drunk, but tipsy and just tired, not really being one to party too much. Even if everyone keeps pointing out she should be enjoying her break and socialize more.  _ I’ll socialize with whom I want, not a bunch of drunk college boys who get handsy. _ Her hand hurts still, the punch not landing where she intended but still causing enough damage to the idiot who thought grabbing her ass was an option.  _ Ugh, never again. _

 

She tiptoes quietly past Ned’s room, not remembering if tonight’s staying-at-Cat’s night, and not wanting to risk him finding her like this, a bit too tipsy and sneaking back in at three in the morning. Lyanna stops when she notices Robert’s door is wide open, and his room is devoid of the man himself. She feels a wave of disappointment but quickly remembers he couldn’t have been out  _ partying, _ not with a freshly broken arm.  _ But he can have a girl over. _ A possibility, even if he’s not had any girls over in the time she’s moved in.  _ Then where is he? _ Not in the kitchen, she’d made a brief stop to grab a glass of water, there was no one there, or the living room, so—

 

“Motherfucker!”

 

Ah, the bathroom, of course.

 

Lyanna considers going to check on him, but she doesn’t fancy him seeing her like this either, and she’s not in the right mind to stop from acting on her urges if he turns out to be wearing only a pair of boxers,  _ no. _ She would jump him right away, consequences be damned.  _ Consequences be god-fucking-damned. _ Shaking her head, she hurries into her room, and sheds her smoke-smelling clothes.  _ Ugh, never again. _ She pulls her hair into a quick ponytail and slips on her summer pjs, which is basically a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized jersey of Robert’s she’d pilfered from the clean laundry. She stands before her mirror, eyes going over the number sixty-nine showing proudly on the jersey, white on blue. Knows if she were to turn around she’d find much the same image, except— except the name  _ ‘Baratheon’ _ would be in black and gold.

 

With a sigh, she goes to get in bed when a loud clatter and an even louder curse coming from the bathroom stop her and make her reconsider her decision not to help.  _ It could be his cast, _ she thinks, slowly walking out of her room and the little distance to the bathroom.

 

Robert’s definitely in there, struggling with something.

 

She knocks softly on the door. “Robert?”

 

There’s a pause and all noise seems to vanish, and then, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

 

“You alright in there?”

 

“I’m fine, just—” There’s another clatter, of something falling in the sink, another string of curses, then he’s silent again.

 

“You don’t sound fine.” After a brief debate, Lyanna chooses to risk it. “Can I come in?”

 

“Yeah, sure…”

 

She’s quick to realize what the problem is upon stepping into the cramped bathroom. Robert’s broken his left arm, an accident that had had her running to the hospital the moment Ned called to tell her, and he was left-handed, which makes every daily chore a difficult task for him. That’s the  _ first  _ thing she realizes, the next being his foamy face and the gillette in his hand, and she has to hold her tongue to tell him to let the beard grow because she liked him better with it. The  _ last  _ thing she notices, that makes her pause; Robert is, as she’d feared, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, much like her own, fitting him better though.

 

Gods  _ help  _ her, she hopes he doesn’t notice her choice of pjs.

 

“Need help?” Lyanna asks instead, smiling sheepishly and hoping for the best. “With… that?”

 

Robert sighs, but nods.

 

Taking the gillette from his hand, Lyanna soon discovers their height difference makes this difficult; Robert tilts his head back, but the angle is wrong and she not tall enough to properly see or trust herself not to cut him accidently. With a huff, she pushes him gently until he sits on the toilet, but this, too, is all wrong and he complains his neck hurts. Standing back up, he knocks her back into the bathroom wall and they both curse before chuckling.

 

“Fucking bathroom,” he grumbles, still trying to shuffle so they find a comfortable position. “Too cramped.”

 

Lyanna barely hears him, suddenly overwhelmed by him and his intoxicating scent and his warm frame pressed tight against her body,  _ goddammit, _ but she's never liked this cramped bathroom as much as she does now. Then she yelps, feeling his good arm move around her waist and lifting her off the floor, Robert turns and places her onto the counter. And they're nearly face to face.

 

“Better?”

 

Her knees move apart to accommodate him as he moves closer, she presses her thighs to his hips, with a grin she hooks her feet to the back of his thighs and nudges him closer. For a moment Robert looks startled, then he grins back.

 

“Perfect,” Lyanna says.

 

*****

 

Somewhere along the way, while she focuses on getting all the spots and fights with her instinct to give him a funny mustache, Robert's right hand lands on her thigh. She thinks, at first, it's an unconscious action, but once his thumb starts rubbing the skin along the seam of her  _ (his) _ boxer shorts, Lyanna wonders  _ (hopes) _ if it's something else. When his hand slides under the fabric, dangerously close to her underwear, she stops her motions with the razor and shudders at the pleasant feeling of his rough fingers stroking the sensitive skin of her thigh.

 

“Are these mine?”

 

Eyes hooded and voice a low rumble in his chest, Lyanna feels the heat pool between her legs quickly.

 

“They're mine now,” and if the words come out as a breathy whisper, well, that's not her intention.

 

With a last swipe, she's done, and reaches for a towel to wipe his face of what remains of the shaving cream. Towel and razor fall into the sink, and she meets his eyes, waiting.

 

“And the jersey?”

 

“Also mine.”

 

His hand shifts further up, his thumb makes another swiping motion, hitting its mark then. She gasps, hips jerking forth, and Robert stops, watching her intently. With a shudder, Lyanna spreads her legs further apart and guides his hand to cup her through her panties. Time stills.  _ Time stills, _ and then rushes, he exhales loudly, accepting her silent invitation.

 

_ Fucking finally. _

 

Robert angles his hand for better access, the boxer shorts loose enough on her that he can move unencumbered. He only makes a pass with his whole hand once, feeling the dampness of her sex through the cotton of her panties, and then begins stroking her with only two fingers. Lyanna shudders again, swaying into him, hides her face in his chest as he works his fingers faster on her, as her moans tumble past her lips. His hand shifts again, her breath hitches and she shakes, shakes,  _ shakes  _ with want, yearning for the skin to skin contact, but Robert keeps touching her through the soaked fabric of her underwear, unable to read her thoughts and she unable to voice them.

 

His fingers curl and sneak beneath her underwear, a beat later, and the light gust of cool air added to his rough skin has her eyes snapping open, wide, and her back arching and she's all kinds of ready to be taken  _ right then and there. _ But Robert simply touches his forehead to hers, watching, taking her in, before he brushes his thumb over her clit—

 

And her world explodes, searing heat spirals throughout her body, blinding her, stealing her breath and the scream that had built in her throat, and then she's falling,  _ falling, _ slumping against his solid frame.

 

Gods but Lyanna still wants more.

 

There's a thin layer of sweat coating her body, the cramped bathroom feeling suddenly stuffy and hot, and she pants as if having run a marathon, cheek pressed to his chest. When her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips, she makes an accidental pass at his skin. Now  _ he  _ shudders, almost violently, and then freezes. Lyanna, mind still hazy due to the orgasm, simply smiles and turns her head, and runs her tongue up to his collarbone, finally getting a taste of  _ Robert. _

 

His hand squeezes her thigh hard and he growls.

 

She’s not deterred, emboldened, she leans closer and drags her tongue up his neck, her hands wander over his chest and down, down,  _ down, _ until she’s feeling him over the thin fabric of his underwear. Long and hard and she aches to feel him inside her now.

 

robert growls again, asks in a raspy voice, “yours or mine?”

 

“Mine,” she replies.

  
He carries her all the way to her room, one arm is all he needs, kicking the door shut once they’re through it.  _ Tonight, _ she thinks, she’ll finally get to lick those abs.


	12. day six, take two - aegon/sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [sequel to this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028799/chapters/34962800)
> 
> in which a threat comes fro beyond the Wall, only it's not what the king says it is.

The storm rages outside, but Aegon hardly cares, his mind recalling over and over his father’s words, said in between many ramblings, but spoken with enough clarity for him to know it isn't another thing to be dismissed.

 

_ “Go north, beyond the Wall, son. Dark times are near, the Long Night, Aegon,” _ he'd gripped his arms tight, near shaking him.  _ “The Night's King is coming for us all, Aegon! You must kill him, only you can do it. My son, the Prince That was Promised.” _

 

Mother had come into Father's solar then, with a sigh she'd coaxed her husband away from him, telling Aegon to go back to Dragonstone, prepare for his journey to Winterfell. With the help of the Kingsguard, Father was taken to his chambers, as he went on and on about how he had to find Visenya, needed to,  _ “the dragon must have three heads!” _

 

“You look troubled.”

 

He sighs and turns away from the window, finds his wife sitting by her dresser, brushing her hair, Lady resting peacefully next to her bench; Sansa’s eyes are fully focused on him. “Is it so obvious?”

 

“Only because I know you so well.” She holds out her hand for him to take, he obliges gladly. “Your father?”

 

“He gets worse every day.” With a heavy sigh, he sits by her side, entwining their hands. “I see it take its toll on Mother. I see what it is I must do…”

 

“It’s not as bad as…”

 

He almost wants to laugh, but shakes his head. “No, not as bad as his predecessor, not as cruel at least.” It is with another sigh that he slumps to the side and lets Sansa cradle him into her chest. “He wants me to take our armies beyond the Wall.”

 

“Isn’t that good? Father’s raven said—”

 

“Not to assess the danger from the wildlings, my love, but to fight the Others.” He straightens up, and urges her to stand up alongside him so they may go to their bed. “He called for her again…”

 

Sansa looks at him in worry as he sits on the edge of the bed, following his actions. “Visenya?”

 

“Yes. I do not know if going North is the right decision now, I should stay here, make sure he doesn’t  _ do _ anything that might endanger the realm,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, and feeling so very exhausted. “I can’t have Mother bear this burden alone, I must—”

 

“You must look out for the realm, the people, now,” she says, with that strength he’s come to rely on greatly now. “Father wouldn’t have sent for aid if the matter with the wildlings weren’t severe, I know it. So, you must go North, take the armies beyond the Wall as the king said, but investigate the real enemy. This King-beyond-the-Wall, and not some make-believe monsters.”

 

“Yes, of course,” he smiles. “Thank you, Sansa. The gods know I’d be lost without you.”

 

“Anything for you,” after sharing a soft kiss, she stands to remove her robe, and then gets in bed, waiting for him; across the room, her great direwolf pads softly closer to the window. “You should take the children with you, it’s been some time since they’ve seen their cousins, uncles and grandparents.”

 

Aegon stops undressing, looking at her askance. “And where will you be?”

 

“I thought… if you truly think Mother needs help, I might go to King’s Landing while you go North—”

 

“No.” Even he is surprised by the harshness of his voice, so Aegon takes a deep breath to calm himself. “No, Sansa, you aren’t staying here.”

 

“If it is for the best, I should.”

 

“No, I’ll not leave you behind. No,” he shakes his head vehemently and hastens to change into his sleeping clothes. “Mother will be fine, she has help.”  _ And guards loyal to her. _ With orders to whisk her away at the first sign of danger.

 

“Well, I would like to see my family again,” says Sansa with a bashful smile.

 

Her acceptance feels him with relief. “Then it’s settled, we’ll go to Winterfell.”

 

*****

 

His goodbrother greets them at the gates, snowflakes catching in his thick auburn curls. He looks much the same he did they saw him last, for Nymeros birth, some four years past; bright smile and head full of brown-reddish hair and eyes just like those of his wife. Sansa smiles brightly at the sight of her brother, she can hardly wait to clamber down from her horse so that she may throw herself into his arms, much to Robb’s delight. 

 

“Robb, it’s been much too long!”

 

Lady howls and trots off, probably chasing after her own brothers, she disappears at the other end of the courtyard.

 

“I’ve missed you too, Sansa,” with a grin, he sets her back on her feet and turns his attention to the children, who’ve lined up next to their mother. “And who are these strangers you bring into my home? Surely not my niece and nephews, no. They’re but babes still.”

 

Aemon, the oldest at nine years of age, laughs as his uncle musses his silver-blond hair, blue-grey eyes shining in joy. “It’s me, Uncle! Aemon! And I’m old enough to wield a sword now, see?”

 

“What have I told you about unsheathing your weapon, Aemon?” Aegon calls, walking closer after seeing that his men took care of their horses and trunks. 

 

The young boy pouts, shuffling his feet. “Not unless I mean to use it, Father…”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Mayhaps this mighty warrior can show me in the training yard sometime how skilled he’s become, eh?” Robb pats his shoulder, then turns to his wife. “Jeyne, love, why don’t you show the children to their rooms? I’m sure their cousins would love to see them. I should like a word with my goodbrother.”

 

Sansa arches an eyebrow, but only shakes her head as she bends to gather Nymeros up in her arms, their youngest, four years of age and the one who came into this world screaming the loudest, bronze-skinned, black-haired, and with startling blue eyes.  _ Mother’s favorite grandchild if she cared to admit it out loud, _ thinks Aegon in amusement.

 

“Of course.”

 

Jeyne smiles and takes Alysanne by the hand, their only daughter and middle child, who looks every inch the Tully, as her mother and uncles, if not for her violet eyes. Leads her and Aemon to the castle, as Sansa follows, chatting away amiably with her brother’s wife.

 

Once they’re all out of sight, Robb turns serious as he addresses him. “What’s the truth of the matter? I know the king didn’t send you here to deal with some wildlings.”

 

The mere remind her bring onto him all the exhaustion of the past several weeks, and he sighs. “It’s true, my father cares naught for the King-Beyond-the-Wall, I’ll grant you that. He has… a certain belief that there is a greater threat.” 

 

“The Others,” replies Robb, mildly surprised.

 

Aegon nods. “Yes.”

 

“Myths.” Robb shakes his head, eyes drifting up into the cloudy sky before falling to focus on him. “The Night’s Watch fights only the living, even the men my lord father has sent to their aid. It’s only living, breathing men who trouble them, who gather under this man’s command.”

 

“I know. I give no credence to my father’s madness. Still, I’m here to aid the north.”

 

“Still you’ve brought armies.”

 

Aegon smirks, claps his shoulder, and says, “dead or living, a war is coming and you need all the men I can offer you.” However his good humor does not last long. “If what the Lord Commander says is true, this King-beyond-the-Wall must be stopped before he marches his armies south.”

 

“There’s still the Wall…” he says, though the following wince isn’t encouraging.

 

“These wildlings have climbed it before, I’ve handled the reports sent by Lord Stark myself, since…” Since his father could not be bothered.

 

“He’ll appreciate that you’ve come. Not only for the grandchildren you’ve brought him either. He’s waiting to speak with you in his solar. Follow me.”

 

*****

 

“The wildlings we’ve captured say Mance Rayder leads an army of ten thousand, but the scouts we’ve sent say it’s not even close to half of that.”

 

Aegon looks at the maps his goodfather has spread on his table, eyes surveying the lands extending beyond the black line that marked the Wall. Takes note of the keeps and settlements marked along the route the men of the Night’s Watch had taken as well as the northern soldiers, as far as they could go, at least.  _ The Haunted Forest. _ None but the captured wildlings know where it ended as of now, and they would not cooperate.  _ The Milkwater, the Frostfangs. _ Each next to the other, each an endless landscape until proven otherwise.

 

“A lie, mayhaps,” says Lord Stark, “but since we’ve yet to find their main settlement, I’ll assume the prisoners speak true.”

 

“That would be the wisest thing to do,” he concedes, mind working furiously for a way to mobilize his armies over this foreign territory and minimize the losses. “Take their words as facts.”

 

“The men you’ve brought are more than enough, for sure, now it’s a matter of…”

 

“How to move them through a forest they aren’t familiar with and not be ambushed in the process?”

 

“Ensure they do not freeze to death, actually,” his goodfather says, tapping on the spot of the map where it said ‘Lands of Always Winter’. “You must know your men aren’t well equipped to venture too far north of the Wall, even my own men will struggle.”

 

“You think this King-beyond-the-Wall will try to drag the battles there?”

 

That would be disastrous, even if he knows his own father would send more of their men for him to command if he asked. Would send the whole bloody realm to stop this prophecy that so has him in its claws. With a sigh, he nearly slumps onto the table, barely holding himself upright by bracing his hands on the rough surface.

 

“You look exhausted.” The hand landing on his shoulder has him looking up into grey eyes. “Are you well, son?”

 

Aegon blinks, unsure of how to reply, wanting to confide in his goodfather yet unwilling to seem weak.  _ I'm to be king, I can't be weak. _ He has to wonder how many before him had had that thought, how many didn't, how many broke under the pressure.  _ Just as… _ He doesn't want to think of his would-be predecessors.

 

With a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, his goodfather tells him to go get some rest before they are to attend the welcoming feast it is being prepared in his honor. Though Aegon knows it's not, that it is Sansa the one being welcomed so warmly. Nevertheless, he nods his acceptance, really needing a moment to breathe. After gathering up the maps and other documents, putting them away, they step out of Lord Stark’s solar. He accompanies him as far as the courtyard before parting ways.

 

As he walks back to his chambers, Aegon realizes he'd not touched on the subject he wanted to discuss, a part of him fearful of repeating history by trying to find a way to control his father more efficiently if not remove him completely from power.  _ Tomorrow, _ he'll have to talk it over with Lord Stark and Robb, share his concerns and ask for their support. Support that will be given, he knows, perhaps only so long as Sansa remained by his side.  _ The North remembers, _ he heard countless times, has seeing the proof of it himself. This hardened northerners cared not a wit about him or the long legacy he carried on his shoulders, but they cared deeply for Sansa and the children.

 

He wonders when will his father's sins stop haunting him

 

*****

 

The feast is lively. Sansa tells him is all thank to her lady mother and Jeyne, who took charge of preparing everything since they sent word of their intentions to visit. Aegon notes the absence of his goodsister, can’t recall if Sansa’s mentioned anything about Arya that might explain her not being here.  _ It’s a long way from Starfall, _ he thinks, and then wonders how come Lord Baratheon hadn’t marched his armies North in aid of Lord Stark.

 

“Don’t think about troubling matters now, my love.” He turns to find Sansa grinning at him, yet worry shining in her eyes. “Just for tonight, we should enjoy ourselves.”

 

“Right, I just was distracted by those who are missing.” Sansa offers him her hand, which he takes, and then leads him beyond the long tables and benches and onto the floor to dance. “It seems odd, is all.”

 

“Arya couldn’t come, Mother says she got her raven days ago,” she says. “She and Edric are playing host to Lady Ashara and her family.”

 

“Playing host?”

 

“That’s how my sister describes it.”

 

Aegon smiles. “Your aunt isn’t here, either.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Lady Baratheon,” he replies, darting a look at his goodfather.

 

“Oh, um,” his wife looks pensive, but not the kind that tells him she’s considering how to deliver bad news, just, genuinely thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think Robb said something about it, while you spoke with Father? Something about Uncle Robert having to knock some sense into a few of his bannermen. That means Aunt Lyanna is in charge of Storm’s End until he returns.”

 

“I expected to find him here, armies ready to march beyond the Wall.”

 

“If I know Uncle Robert, he’ll be here soon enough.”

 

Aegon smiles ruefully, still remembering the beating he took from the man, all those years ago when he’d been caught about to kiss Sansa, long before their betrothal. “If not on his own, I fear that by royal decree. He’ll not take it well, then.”

 

Sansa pinches his side, frowns at him and reminds him to leave troubling matters aside for the night. So he smiles and nods, bringing her close as they dance out of tune to the lively song playing in the background. They enjoy a few more dances, then return to the high table, in time to see their children be carted off to bed. Briefly, he thinks he ought to take his wife to bed, foreseeing days full of preparations before they are to set off for the Wall. But leaving a feast in their honor isn't exactly the way to show appreciation. Though looking at her, now, he decides to do just that.

 

“Perhaps we should retire,” he says, with a smile that borders on the wicked. No time for subtlety or proper good nights, he takes her by the hand, and bears Robb’s laughter until they’re far enough from the Great Hall.

 

“He’ll tease you terribly come morning,” she says.

 

“I’ll endure it gladly, so long as I can have you all for myself now.”

 

Her grin is bright and suddenly, it feels as if they’re years younger, back to his first visit to Winterfell after he’d declared his intentions to court her, when he’d walked willingly into the Wolves’ Den and stood before the solemn gaze of Eddard Stark. Sansa had greeted him with a smile and an immediate offer to show him around her home, under the watchful gaze of her brother, until Robb was properly distracted and with a mischievous smile, she’d kissed him.

 

Only once and only a soft brush of the lips, but for Aegon, it had been enough.

 

“And what is it Prince Aegon thinks about now that he would ignore his wife?”

 

There’s the same brush of lips from his youth, he smiles. “Only remembering a young girl kissing a prince when her brother wasn’t looking.”

 

“That girl thought herself very brave then, bold,” they stop by the door of their chamber. “But I'd like to focus on the moment now, if it's alright?”

 

“It's perfect.”

 

*****

 

As predicted, the following days are busy to the point no one gets enough sleep to have everything ready to depart.

 

Aegon sends a raven to his father, asking him to hold back on sending more men until he's had the time to asses the situation beyond the Wall, sends another to his mother so she is ready to contain him if he were to ignore his plea. When he's not planning how to move the armies alongside his goodfather and goodbrother, his children hound him for one thing or another, just as they always do whenever they hear of his departure. Alysanne asks him him bring her back pretty flowers, Nymeros asks for a wolf, while Aemon tells him he's old enough to ride with him.

 

The Gods bless his wife for diverting that tantrum when he'd refused their eldest his request.

 

When it's finally time to leave, they stand side by side in the courtyard, waiting for his squire to ready his horse.

 

“It'll make me be at ease if you were to stay here, my love,” he says, hands flexing as he puts on his gloves. “I've told Mother, if you are summoned to King's Landing, to tell everyone you are to stay here at my orders.”

 

Sansa frowns, moves to stand in front of him, straightening his cloak. “This need you have to protect us from your father,” she sighs. “The king is not dangerous.”

 

_ Yet,  _ he wants to say, but understands she couldn't know why he distrusts the man so much. Sansa knows nothing of those early memories of his grandfather, his rages and disdain and threats to his mother, how his father had stood by and did nothing. How Aegon had made a silent promise to never be like Rhaegar Targaryen.

 

“Still, for me.”

 

“For you,” she says, with a kiss. “Be safe, please, I'm not ready to be a widow.”

 

“I'll be back before you know it,” which is unlikely, but it makes him feel better to say it. “I'll bring only good news, you'll see.”

 

Robb comes by to say they're ready to part whenever he is, so Aegon mounts his horse, and spares a last glance at his family before urging the animal into a quick trot.

 

When he returns, it's not with good news, but with three direwolves pups.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
